


Happiness (that's all wrapped up in you)

by randyscousegit



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: 1960s, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Discussion of Christianity, Drinking, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Hand Jobs, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder (mentioned), Mutual Pining, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Recreational Drug Use, Religious Conflict, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sharing a Bed, Smoking, Strangers to Lovers, Summer, discussion of religion, giovanni's room - james baldwin - Freeform, hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:55:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 74,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24077080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randyscousegit/pseuds/randyscousegit
Summary: Will expects the summer of 1968 to be the same as any other - a few warm months at home, listening to music, reading books, and making teenage mistakes. But, with his older sister expecting, his parents send him to spend the summer with his aunt in a tiny Essex village.It is here that he meets Tom Blake.
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 213
Kudos: 179





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> okay! hello this is my first 1917 fic. id been wanting to write one for a while, but couldn't quite get it kick started. but then i managed to come up with a story, and set it in the late 60s, a period of time im shamelessly fixated on.  
> i dont know how regular updates will be, but i am hoping ill actually finish this fic because right now it encapsulates everything i really love.  
> so read on for anglicisms, googled 60s slang, and tom blake's exaggerated essex accent! i hope you enjoy
> 
> title from papa gene's blues by the monkees

Summer was usually Will's favourite time of year. He could take a break from his studies, and laze in the sun for hours on end, agreeing with his parents' suggestions that he should get a job, but never really doing anything about it. He could smoke and drink, and sneak out after dark to meet up with the girls in town who wore miniskirts and blue eyeshadow. He'd listen to his records, or turn up his pocket transistor whenever The Stones started playing. Normally, it was bliss. 

He'd expected the summer of '68 would be no different. His second year of university was over, and he'd soon be starting his final year, making this summer the last he could truly relish before adulthood. 

So he was unpleasantly surprised at dinner, one orange evening, when his father informed him that he would be spending the summer at his aunt's. 

" _What?_ " he asked through a mouthful of potato. 

"Don't speak with your mouth full," his mother frowned, before turning back to Will's father. 

They both looked a little nervous, he noticed, his mother more so than his father. 

"I said," his father's lip twitched beneath his mustache, "that you will be spending the summer at your Aunt Mabel's, rather than here. And there'll be no arguments about it." 

"But _why_?" he insisted, " _Why_ can't I stay here?" 

"Your sister is moving back here for the next few months," his mother said carefully, keeping her eyes on her plate, rather than on Will. "She's coming to the end of her pregnancy." 

"So? Why's she coming back? Why do I have to go?" 

Across the table, his mother inhaled deeply, and his father cleared his throat. 

"You remember the… complications she had with her last, don't you?" 

Will's frown deepened. He hadn't heard about any complications. Little Susie was absolutely fine, and from what he knew, the birth had been relatively straightforward. 

"What complications?" he asked, training his eyes on a spot just between his parents' shoulders, where he imagined all of their secrets were kept. 

He saw them both straighten up, holding in stiff breaths, and exchanging a worried glance. 

"That doesn't matter right now," his mother told him through a tight grimace. He noticed that she'd put down her knife and fork, and was instead twisting her wedding ring around her finger. 

More than anything, Will wanted to shout at them, to insist that it _did_ matter right now, that it was horrible of them to keep secrets. But he knew that instead of yielding any more answers, that kind of behaviour would only get him a clip round the ear, as if he were a kid again. Instead, he cut into the chicken breast on his plate, and waited for someone else to speak. 

"We're all afraid of something like that happening again," his father split the quiet, "Me, your mother, Jack, and Eliza most of all. So we all thought it'd be best that she came back here for the birth, where we can all keep an eye." 

Will exhaled loudly through his nose. "That doesn't explain why I have to go." 

His mother sighed, and attempted a smile, but Will could see she was taut with worry, or perhaps frustration. He was asking too many questions, being too stubborn. No, he was not the obedient little boy she wished he still was. A part of him felt a little guilty for that, for growing up, and the guilt dampened the indignity that was burning in his throat. 

"Well they're all coming up," she told him, smoothing one hand over the table cloth, "Eliza, Jack, Susie…"

"We were going to put Susie in your room," his father added, "So there'd be nowhere for you to sleep."

"I could sleep on the sofa," Will countered, watching the way his father's lip twitched again. 

"No you couldn't, think of your poor back," his mother said swiftly, "Besides, the house would be too full-"

"Especially with you lounging around on your arse all day."

His mother shot his father a warning glance, and Will felt his own lip twitch, a mirror of the man opposite him. He could cause an argument. He could shout and scream, and disappear all night. He could make them worry about him, and return to them saying that they were wrong to ever think of sending him away. 

He could, but he didn't. 

Keeping his voice level, he said, "I could look after Susie. Be a proper uncle."

His father scoffed. 

"Or," he continued, "I could get a job. A real job-" 

"You? Get a job?" his father snorted, "How many times have I heard that one before?" 

"William," his mother was looking directly at him now, and he looked back at her, "Please, just do as you're told." 

He swallowed. Here he was, 20 years old, being asked to shrink himself down into a child again. He was no longer seen as an adult, like he was at university, but an insolent teenager who had to be scolded into doing whatever his parents wanted. 

"Why Aunt Mabel's?" he bit his lip, "Why not somewhere closer?" 

"She's unwell," his mother answered after a pause and another shared look with his father. "We thought you could… help her on the road to recovery, so to speak." 

"Alright." He would bend himself to their will. He would do what they asked of him, this time. He could sacrifice the summer if it meant peace among his family, he supposed. "When do I leave?" 

"At the weekend," his father informed him, before mopping up the remaining gravy on his plate with a slice of bread. 

*

Will packed his things, a task that wasn't too difficult, since he'd barely unpacked after finishing university, and before he knew it, it was Saturday; at 7am, he found himself in the back of his father's Minor 1000, squashed against his suitcase as they made the drive to his aunt's house. 

Mabel lived just over an hour away, in a small Essex village. Will had visited a few times, but never for longer than a week. It was a pretty place, surrounded by farmland, its main exports being wool and young lads itching for a fight. Each time they'd visited, Will recalled his mother marvelling at how quiet it was, how blue the skies were, how friendly everyone seemed. He knew that by the time he left, he would be another young lad itching for a fight, or anything else to get his blood pumping. He wondered if the village even received a radio signal. 

The journey itself was torturous. He tried to read, to avoid listening to his parents' lectures on how to behave. When his mother told him reading in the car would make him dizzy, he read more intently, until he felt sick and was forced to close the book. Every so often, a song he liked would start up on the radio, and he would lean forward to turn up the volume, only for his father to slap his hand away. 

The journey was nearing its end when he finally spoke. "You said Auntie Mabel was ill. So what's actually wrong with her?" 

He saw his mother tense in her seat, his father's hands grip the steering wheel tighter, but neither of them answered. 

"Is it contagious?" he pressed, "Am I going to get it? Is that why you're sending me there?" 

"No, Will," his mother sighed, rubbing her forehead with her hand, "It's not contagious, it's- it's nothing really, just forget I said that." 

Will leaned his head against the window, and let the tremor of the glass further mix up the flurry of thoughts in his mind. His parents were keeping secrets from him. It was a strange realisation, and it sat like a stone in his throat. He wondered what these secrets were. He wondered if they'd ever tell him. He wondered when they'd started keeping things from him - or if they always had, and he'd just never cared enough to notice before. 

*

The car rumbled to a stop in front of Mabel's house, and Will jumped out as fast as he could. He jumped on the spot a few times and rolled his shoulders back, trying to regain feeling in every corner of his body. Only when his legs felt fully stretched did he turn back to pull his suitcase out of the car. He shut the car door a little too hastily ("Don't slam the door, William!") and turned to look at Aunt Mabel's house. 

She lived in a stone cottage, a little way from the centre of the village. Plants grew in an arch around the blue front door. Will could've sworn that once they were roses, but now it appeared to be ivy instead. There was a path up to the door, made out of round stone slabs, and from each crack, a weed seemed to spring. 

His father made his way along this path, his mother close behind, with both of them decidedly ignoring each dandelion that sprouted beneath their feet. Will followed them with his suitcase, and when his father knocked three times on the door, he noticed flakes of blue paint crumbling and drifting to the ground. 

When Mabel answered the door, she looked a little like she had just woken up. His father's half-sister, Will was always fascinated by how much older she was, yet how young she managed to appear. Perhaps it was her hair, long and wavy, that she never tied back. Will's mother, by contrast, almost always pulled her dyed blonde hair back from her face into a standard issue bun. Even now, with new streaks of silver, Mabel seemed as if she had barely aged. 

"Hello Mikey," she smiled at her brother, who grimaced at the nickname, "Dora, and Will, of course. Come in!" 

She stepped to the side of the doorway and gestured for the three of them to enter. Despite the summer heat, she was wearing a shawl over her nightie, and pulled it closer as they passed. After closing the door, she led them into her small kitchen, telling Will to leave his suitcase in the hall. She offered tea, and for a while, Will listened to the three of them make polite conversation around the kitchen table. 

Eventually, the conversation switched to his sister, and then, in turn, to him.

"Thank you again for letting Will stay," his mother almost simpered behind her teacup. 

"Oh, I'm sure he'll be no trouble," Mabel smiled easily, "Be nice to have some company for a bit."

Will's father cleared his throat. "Speaking of company, we're supposed to be collecting Eliza at 2, so we'd better head off." 

All four of them rose from their chairs, Will's mother frowning at him slightly, while his father avoided looking at him at all. His parents walked into the hall, Mabel following behind them. For a moment, Will hesitated in the kitchen, as the realisation truly dawned on him that he wouldn't be making the journey back with his parents. This fact made him feel so simultaneously old and young, and he hated the way both of those labels wrapped around his wrists. 

"Will," Mabel called from the hall, jolting him out of his trance of self pity. 

He joined the rest of his family, watching his mother smooth the creases from her dress, his father adjusting his hat on his head. 

"See you soon," Mabel smiled, giving each of them a kiss on the cheek. 

"Probably later, rather than sooner, I'm afraid," Will's father said, patting her gently on the shoulder, "Look after yourself." 

"Bye," Will waved from the other side of the room. He tried to keep the bitterness from his voice, and remind himself that perhaps this would be for the best. 

His father finally met his eye. They nodded at each other, and with a gruff, "Be good," Michael Schofield turned and started towards the car. 

"We'll keep you informed," his mother told him, walking over to where he stood and straightening his collar, "I'll call every week. And I'll call if anything important happens." 

Will just nodded. "Bye Mum," and he kissed her on the cheek. 

"Goodbye," she said to Mabel as she hurried towards the door, where her husband was waiting in the car. 

Then Mabel shut the door, and the house fell quiet. 

"Shall we go to your room?" she asked, taking a hold of his suitcase. 

He mumbled, "Alright," although he knew it was more of a rhetorical question. The answer was always going to be yes. The two of them made their way up the tiny wooden staircase, into the cramped second floor. The roof was so low up here that Will had to duck to avoid hitting his head - which was strange, for he could've sworn it had been bigger the last time he was here. 

As a child, when his family had come to visit Mabel, Will and his sister had slept in the guest bedroom, while their parents would sleep in Mabel's room. Mabel herself would make her bed downstairs on a sofa, although Will wondered how much she really slept. Now he would be in the guest bedroom alone, and no one would be left to sleep on the sofa. That was a better deal, he supposed. 

"Make yourself at home," Mabel said simply, placing his suitcase on the end of the bed. "Are you hungry? I'll make some tea. Or is it lunch?" Still murmuring to herself, she left the room, closing the door behind her. 

For a few moments after the door clicked shut behind him, Will stood still. He cast his eyes around the room, finding it somewhat familiar, yet foreign all the same. The oak wardrobe and white lace curtains, he knew, he remembered, but it seemed more like he'd seen them in reoccurring dreams than as a part of his life. It all seemed too pale to be real, as if he had stepped into a ghost. Still, he thought, this was to be home for the next month or two, no matter how much that idea made his bones ache. 

He walked slowly over to his suitcase and gently opened it. His small radio lay on top of his clothes. He picked it up, switched it on and, after fiddling with the dials, placed it on the bedside table, playing a Tom Jones song. His clothes made their way into the wardrobe and into drawers, and the paperbacks he'd sandwiched between his shirts formed a neat pile next to the radio. After placing the suitcase under the bed, he flopped onto the linen sheets and blew a deep breath up to the ceiling. 

What now? Surely there had to be something to do, somewhere around here. They'd driven through the village to reach Mabel's house, and all Will could remember was a small shop and a chapel. There must be a pub somewhere. 

"Will!" Mabel's voice drifted up the stairs, "I've made sandwiches!" 

Will stood up, clicked off his radio, and made his way down the stairs, nearly losing the top of his head on the ceiling twice. 

When he reached the kitchen, he found Mabel sat at the table, both hands around a mug of something warm and brown. In front of her was a plate of cheese sandwiches, cut into triangles. The sight set a gentle warmth in Will's chest, and a small smile graced his lips. 

"You're very quiet today," Mabel noted as he joined her at the table. 

Will shrugged, picking up a sandwich. "Sorry." 

Mabel laughed. "You're alright. I'm used to the quiet. Still," she paused to take a sip of her drink, "Might be nice, having someone who'll talk back. I'm sure you'll settle in eventually." 

"Maybe," Will replied through a mouthful of sandwich. 

They both sat in silence for a while, Mabel studying Will, and Will focused on the sandwiches. Halfway through his sixth, he realised that Mabel hadn't had any, and that he was close to finishing the plate. 

"Do you..?" he pointed at the plate. 

"Oh, no," she shook her head, "They're all yours. You're a growing lad! You've grown so much since I last saw you." 

Unsure of what to say, Will nodded and finished his sandwich. 

Mabel continued, "I hope you won't get too bored around here. It's a nice village, but probably too quiet for someone your age. It's all about noise and excitement for your lot, isn't it?" 

"Is there a pub?" Will asked before biting into his seventh sandwich. 

His aunt chuckled, "Ah, a pub. Not here, no. Next village over," she saw the slump of his shoulders and added, "There's a bus that'll take you. Comes every hour or so, if you're interested." 

"What time?" he asked, embarrassed by how eager he sounded. 

She gave him a crooked smile, before looking to the clock on the wall. "Quarter past the hour, so you've got twenty minutes. Stops outside the church." 

"Right, thank you!" 

He finished the sandwiches, and ran back up to his room, finding his wallet and speeding out again. This time he hit the top of his head on the door frame, but not hard enough to slow him down. 

Stopping by the front door, he brushed down his clothes, ran a hand through his hair, and was about to open the front door when Mabel called through from the kitchen, "Aren't you going to take a coat? Heard it might rain." 

"I'll be fine," he called back, "It's June. I'll see you later." 

And he left. 

*

According to the clock face on the front of the church, the bus was five minutes late. And according to the sudden gathering of dark clouds overhead, Mabel was right about the weather. When the heavens opened up, Will hoped it would only be a quick shower, or perhaps that the bus would show up. After another five minutes, he considered hiding from the rain in the church. But he worried that he'd miss the bus. A part of him suggested he go back to Mabel's, at least to dry off, get a coat, and try again the next hour. But he'd already been here this long, he may as well wait it out. 

When the water started to drip off the tip of his nose, he wondered if a trip to the pub was even worth it. 

At half past, he considered trying to find a phone number for a taxi. Perhaps there would be one in the phone box on the other side of the green. But again, he thought, what if the bus came while he was in the telephone box? That'd be just his luck, wouldn't it? 

Two minutes later, a young man walked out of the shop across the road. Will had watched him enter earlier, the only person he'd seen so far in this village. Despite the man having spent so long in the shop, his hands were empty, aside from a large black umbrella, which he now opened to protect himself from the pissing rain. 

His eyes met Will's and even from across the street, Will could see they were a brilliant blue. For a beat, the two stared at each other, the man under his umbrella and Will soaked to the skin. Suddenly, the man's face split into a dazzling grin that blindsided Will. He smiled so wide, as if they were friends, despite having never met before in their lives. It was bizarre. 

Even more bizarre was the way he crossed the road and stood next to Will, angling his umbrella so that they could both stay dry. He was shorter than Will, meaning he had to position his arm in a way that would look awkward on anyone else. But he somehow managed to appear so casual. 

"Been for a swim?" he laughed. His accent was strong, definitely a local. And up close, his smile seemed even brighter. 

"I- uh," Will stuttered, caught off guard by the question. 

The man continued, apparently oblivious to Will's awkwardness. "You're not from 'round 'ere, are ya?" 

"Uh, no." 

"Didn't think so. I'd remember a face like yours," and he seemed to study Will a little more intently, eyes following the line of his nose, his cheeks, his jaw. 

Even with the bitter cold of the rain sticking his clothes to his skin, Will suddenly felt feverishly warm. 

"I'm staying with my aunt," he said quickly, "for the summer." 

"Who's your aunt?" the man asked. 

"Mabel. Mabel Schofield." 

A strange expression passed over the man's face for a moment, something akin to a frown. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared. 

"Oh, Mabel. You a Schofield as well then?" 

"Um, yes," Will held out a damp hand, "William Schofield." 

"Blake," said the other man, "Tom Blake." 

And he took a firm hold of Will's hand. His palm was a lot smaller than Will's own, but it was warm. He wore two rings that pressed colder against Will's skin, and with the force of Blake's grip, Will wondered if they would leave a mark. They shook their joined hands twice, and Will found himself reluctant to let go. He told himself it was due to the heat Blake provided. 

Still holding Will's hand, Tom said, "So, Schofield, what're you doin' standin' out 'ere in the wet?" 

Will withdrew his hand and shoved it in his trouser pocket, as if he were making sure Blake couldn't grab him again. 

"'m waiting for the bus. Seeking out the pub." 

"Bit early," Blake laughed, "Bus don't get 'ere 'til quarter to." 

"Oh," he replied.

He'd been standing there for half an hour for nothing. Waiting in the rain for a bus that wasn't even coming. Drenched through his clothes, dripping water from his eyelashes. For fuck's sake. 

Next to him, Blake was still giggling, as if it were the funniest thing he'd ever heard. Will studied the bright flash of his teeth, the roundness of his cheeks, the crinkles around his eyes. He listened to the cadence of Blake's laugh, how he sounded younger. 

And he found himself laughing too. It was a little infectious, finding humour in his own misfortune. Hearing Will join in seemed to make Blake laugh harder, which in turn intensified Will's chuckle. Soon they were both almost doubled over, ribs aching, a hand on the other's shoulder for support. Blake leant forwards, and with him tipped the umbrella, sending cold rainwater running down both of their necks. They each gasped sharply at the shock, still clinging to each other, still laughing. Will couldn't remember the last time he'd laugh so hard, or if he ever had. 

"Tell you what," Blake began as they calmed down, great guffaws becoming quiet chuckles, "D'y'wanna come back to mine and dry off for a bit, 'stead of goin' to the pub? 'cause I tell you now, if you walk in lookin' like a drowned rat, you'll never live it down." 

Will liked the way he offered, like it wasn't really a question; he already seemed to know that Will would say yes. 

"D'you live far?" he asked, as if the answer would change anything. Despite having only just met, he felt so magnetised to Blake, felt he could follow him. Perhaps it was a combination of his bright blue eyes, hair that curled around the nape of his neck, and easy laugh. Or maybe it was just coincidence, Blake being the first person he'd met in this village. Either way, he already felt a level of trust that had been rare to him for most of his life. 

"Nah, not far," Blake quirked the corner of his mouth, "Few roads." 

"Lead the way then." 

A few roads turned out to be more than a few. They wandered winding lanes and twisting roads, Will trying to remember his way back, and forgetting a little more with each corner they turned. 

He'd expected the walk to be quiet, he himself not having much to say, and thinking that Blake would be the same. But it seemed Blake had a story for every tree and signpost they passed, filling up the silence and expecting nothing from Will. It was nice, Will thought, being with someone who could speak so easily. 

"'old on," Blake said after finishing a particularly long-winded story about his brother, Joe, "Need to tie me laces." 

They stopped under a tree and Blake thrust the umbrella into Will's hands before crouching down to retie his shoe laces. Will watched how quickly his hands worked, and how the rings on his fingers glinted gold whenever they caught the daylight. This was the longest Blake had been quiet since they'd met, leaving only the sound of raindrops pattering on the fabric of the umbrella. Perhaps it was Will's turn to speak. 

"I thought you said it wasn't far," he sniffed, casting a glance around them and seeing nothing resembling a house. 

"'s' not," Blake said, looking up at him from the ground, resting an arm across his thigh, "Wait…" a wicked grin came over his face, "You're a city slicker, ain't ya?" 

Will snorted. "Not sure if 'slick' is the word I would use." 

Blake stood up, keeping his eyes on Will's face, "Nah, makes sense now. You city lot want everything _now_. Can't stand the waitin'." 

He gently took hold of the umbrella, warm fingers brushing against Will's. Will shivered slightly, excusing it as a response to the damp. For a split second, they both held the umbrella, skin touching skin. It was strange, that the brush of their hands stood out to Will so much, as if it were somehow important. Will relinquished his grip of the umbrella, swiftly angling his body away from Blake. 

They began walking again, slower than before, as if they were taking a stroll. Will pretended his hand wasn't tingling. 

"I think that's a bit of a generalisation," he tried to pick up where Blake had left off.

"You _know_ I'm right," Blake insisted, "Always rushin' around, got somewhere better to be. 'spectin' everything to be five minutes away." 

His words were harsh, but his tone was humorous. Even if it weren't, one look at the crinkles around his eyes would tell Will it was friendly mockery. 

Will chuckled, "That's 'cause most things _are_ five minutes away. Normally." 

"Well, welcome to the new normal!" 

Stepping over a puddle, Will searched for something funny to say, something witty that would make his new companion laugh. But anything clever, it seemed, had been lost a few meters back, under the tree. He stayed silent. 

"We're nearly at mine now," Blake said with a sidelong glance at Will. A few moments passed before he continued, "You've gone all quiet again. Didn't say somethin' wrong, did I?" 

"What? No, of course not," Will replied, eyes wide. Blake probably thought he was rude. "I'm just… I don't have much to say." 

"Oh, right," Blake finally looked away, "Shame. I preferred it when you was talkin' back." 

"Um, I'm sor-" Will began to apologise, but he was cut short by a sudden bark. 

He looked around, and noticed a wooden gate breaking up the dark green hedge that was lining the road. And behind the gate, a golden labrador, drenched by the rain, was watching them, wagging its tail excitedly. 

Beside him, Blake laughed, and hurried over to the gate. Will followed as close as he could, not wanting to lose the cover of Blake's umbrella. 

"'ello Myrtle," Blake was saying to the dog, reaching a hand over the gate to stroke its head. The dog - Myrtle - jumped up, her front paws finding purchase on the gate so it was easier for Blake to reach her. Blake looked at Will over his shoulder, "Come an' say hi, Scho." 

Scho. 

That was the first time Blake had referred to him by name, and instead of calling him 'Schofield' or 'William', he'd elected a nickname. Will had never been called 'Scho' before, but on Blake's tongue it sounded right. It felt familiar, like they'd known each other for years. A warmth spread across Will's chest, as if he'd stepped into the sunlight, and for the first time he felt that maybe being here for the summer wouldn't be so bad after all. 

Holding out his hand for Myrtle to sniff, Will allowed himself to step closer to Blake, so that their arms pressed together at their shoulders. He could feel Blake's body warmth through their shirts, along with the heat of Myrtle's hot breath on his fingers. It was a strange contrast to the general cold that his damp clothes maintained. 

When Myrtle licked his hand, hot and wet, he recoiled in surprise, pulling his arm back to his chest. He could feel Blake's laugh before he heard it, a shaking in his shoulders that made its way out in high chuckles. 

"Not used to dogs are ya, city boy?" 

"Shut up," Will muttered, unable to help the smile tugging at his lips. He gently shoved Blake's shoulder, and was pleased when Blake shoved back. 

"Climb over then," Blake instructed suddenly. 

"What?" 

"The _gate_ , Scho. Climb over."

Will frowned. "Why? Isn't that trespassing?" 

"'s'not if it's my house, dickhead," Blake was smirking at him, an almost affectionate look in his eyes. 

"Oh!" the realisation hit Will suddenly. This was where Blake lived. Hence Myrtle being so excited to see him. If he thought back a little, Blake had mentioned a dog in one or two of his stories. Still, if this was Blake's house, why did he have to climb over the gate? "Can't you just open the gate?" 

"No, 'cause then Myrtle'll get out," Blake explained, "And I dunno about you, but I don't fancy chasin' her down the road in this weather," he paused as Will huffed a laugh, "Go on then, climb over." 

Gingerly, Will placed a hand on the wood of the gate, and found it to be thoroughly dampened. Noticing his hesitation, Blake sighed and thrust the umbrella towards him. 

"I'll go first. Hold this."

Will opened his mouth to protest, but embarrassment stoppered his words, leaving him gaping as Blake clambered up one side of the gate like a ladder. Placing both hands on the top of the gate, he lifted one leg over, muttering at Myrtle for her to stop jumping up at him, lest she get a boot in the face. After finding his footing, he swung his other leg over, and jumped neatly down off the gate. 

"See? Not so 'ard, is it?" he grinned, reaching over to take the umbrella back from Will, "Your turn." 

Right, it was easy. Just one foot in front of the other. He placed his left foot on the bottom rung of the gate. Blake was watching, absentmindedly rubbing the top of Myrtle's head with his free hand. Will placed his hands on the top of the gate again, ignoring the wet this time. He didn't want to embarrass himself in front of his new friend. That thought made him pause. He considered Blake his friend already. Did Blake think the same of him? 

"Come on, you can do it," Blake encouraged, mistaking his hesitance for nerves. His voice was softer than before, less of a goad and more of a cheer. 

Will placed his right foot on the next rung, and clinging tight to the gate, moved his left above that. Putting most of his weight on his hands, he now lifted his right leg, leaning his shin on the top of the gate. Halfway there. Slowly he slid his right leg forward, until he could ease it all the way over and find a foothold on the other side of the gate. He shifted his right hand so that it was on the right side of his body. Gripping the gate, he started lifting his left leg to join the rest of him. He leaned forward - and at that moment, the damp of the wood caused his left hand to lose its grasp of the gate, his body swinging forward. Before he had a chance to flail in panic, a hand caught hold of his arm at the elbow, steadying him. 

"I've got you, don't worry," Blake said, giving Will's elbow a reassuring squeeze. 

Will's hand found Blake's forearm, and now leaning most of his weight on Blake, he swung his other leg over and stepped onto the ground. 

"Thanks," he said, half breathless. 

Blake released Will's arm. 

"No worries mate," the left side of his mouth quirked up, "C'mon, let's get in."

He turned to follow a mud track that led up to a greystone house. Myrtle dashed past his legs to run in front of him, as if she were leading the way. 

Will stayed by the gate a few moments, burning up in the indignity of the previous incident. It was a stupid little thing, the rain making him slip. He silently cursed the sky, still spitting vehemently down on him. If it had been sunny, then he definitely wouldn't have lost his hold of the gate and made himself look like a right twat. 

"You deaf or somethin'?" Blake interrupted his train of thought, as he turned to call Will after him, "You're gettin' soaked again, come on!" 

Then again, if not for the rain, Will might not have met Blake in the first place. 

Blake looked at him, all blue eyes and expectance. Will followed. 

*

The inside of Blake's home was bright and airy, full of floral prints and wood work. The walls of the hall were lined with framed photographs, and Will identified Blake in at least half of them. In most, Blake was accompanied by another boy, who Will assumed was his brother, Joe. They had the same dark hair and light eyes, but, as they got older, it seemed that where Blake remained softer, his brother had become more chiselled. 

As they'd entered, Blake had closed the umbrella and propped it up by the door, shrugged off his jacket, and slipped a box of cigarettes from his coat pocket to his jeans. Will was surprised to then watch him drop the jacket on the light wood floor, as he leaned down and untied his boots. Slowly, Will did the same, undoing the laces on his trainers, although instead of kicking them off and leaving them lying messily on the floor like Blake, he carefully removed them and left them neatly by the door. After running around them both a few times, panting in excitement, Myrtle shook her wet coat, and although he told her not to, Blake giggled at the water droplets that splashed onto the wallpaper. Will couldn't help sniffing a laugh too. 

Blake had then stepped into the role of mother hen, ushering Will into the kitchen and starting the kettle boiling. He briefly left Will standing there, alone in his socks in this unfamiliar place, only to return with a thick towel that he draped around Will's shoulders. 

"Sit down," he instructed, gesturing to the oak wood table and matching chairs. 

Will did as he was told, watching as Blake busied himself in the kitchen cupboards, producing two cream tea cups. 

"You drink tea, right?" he asked absently, taking a teapot and rinsing it out in the sink. 

"Um, yes." 

"Good," Blake glanced over at him and gave him a slight smile, "I dunno if I trust anyone who don't drink tea. Y'wanna know why?" he didn't wait for an answer, "My mum, she used to see this bloke, right? An' he'd come over every Sunday, after we'd been to church and that, an' she'd offer him a cuppa, y'know, as you do." 

He paused as the kettle began to squeal, and he poured the hot water into the teapot. 

"But he always said no. _Ah_ ," he winced as a splash of boiling water landed on the back of his hand, "Well me an' Joe, we already didn't trust 'im, 'cause we thought he was tryna steal our mum away. D'ya take milk and sugar?" he asked as he poured tea into the two cups in front of him. 

"Oh," Will snapped back to attention, finding himself lost in the cadence of Blake's voice, "Just milk, please." 

Blake turned to look at him again. "What, no sugar?" then he smirked, "Don't tell me, sweet enough already?" 

A little surprised, Will scoffed a laugh, "Something like that." 

Still studying him, Blake nodded. "S'pose you are." 

Will hoped the burn of his cheeks wasn't visible. 

"So anyways," Blake continued as he opened the fridge and retrieved a bottle of milk, "He came over every Sunday, but he never had a cuppa. Now, around the same time, we started noticin' stuff was goin' walkabout. Y'know, small things at first like the newspaper, gone missin'. At first, we thought it was nothing,” he added three heaped teaspoons of sugar into one of the cups, “We all lose stuff, don't we? But then," he turned dramatically, holding both cups and bringing them to the kitchen table. He sat down opposite Will. " _Then_ , Mum's jewellery starts disappearing. And it _turns out_ , this cat, he'd been comin' over to nick stuff, and takin' it to this pawn shop a few villages over! Cheeky cunt." 

Unsure of what to say, Will nodded and cupped his hands around his tea. He felt the warmth slowly spread through his hands, up his arms. 

"Now, I know what you're thinkin'," Blake said. 

"You do?" Will asked mildly. 

"You're thinkin', what's that got to do with the tea? Maybe he just didn't like tea, right? That don't mean he's a wrongun, right?" 

"Sure," Will couldn't help his smile. He'd humour Blake, so long as he carried on talking. 

"I reckon it was the guilty conscience," Blake lightly rapped his fist on the table, as if hammering his point home, "He already knew he weren't here with good intentions, felt bad about takin' somethin' else from me mum," he took a quick sip of his tea, despite it being too hot, "'sides, I always saw him buyin' tea down the shop." 

Will chuckled a little. "So anyone who doesn't drink tea is out to steal your valuables?" 

Blake smirked. "Well they're up to _somethin_ ', I reckon." 

Will thought about his father, how he never drank tea. Maybe Blake was onto something. 

There was a brief moment of quiet, the only noises being the rain against the window panes and Blake lightly blowing into his tea. It was calming, Will felt, like being wrapped up inside a fairy tale he’d read as a child. All that was missing was the beautiful princess for him to fall in love with. Across the table, Blake eased the box of cigarettes out of his pocket, plucking one out and putting it between his lips. 

“Soggy,” he mumbled, holding the box out to Will, “You?” 

“Cheers.” Will took one gratefully, holding it thoughtfully between his thumb and forefinger. 

“Fuck,” Blake muttered, taking the cigarette from his mouth again, “Lost my lighter, didn’t I? You got one?” 

Will shook his head. Blake pushed away from the table, chair legs squeaking against the tile floor, and began to search around the kitchen for something. 

“Woulda thought you’d ‘ave one, if you smoked,” Blake’s voice was muffled again, as if he were speaking around the cigarette. 

“I left it at home,” Will shrugged, “And,” he added, his heart beginning to race at the idea of sharing something else about himself so quickly, “I don’t tend to smoke… y’know, your average cigarette brands.” He dearly hoped it didn’t sound like he was bragging. 

Blake reappeared at the table with a box of matches and wide eyes. “Y’mean… like _grass_?”

“Um, yes,” Will trained his eyes on his hands, shifting the cigarette between fingers. 

“Woah,” Blake breathed, “Groovy.” 

There was the sound of a match being struck against the box a few times before the smell of smoke filled Will’s nose. 

“C’mere,” Blake mumbled, holding out the lit match. He’d already lit his own cigarette, and was taking a long drag. 

Will placed his smoke between his lips and leaned forward quickly to catch the end in Blake’s flame. He inhaled deeply - a little too deeply - and fought to keep the cough in his throat. Sitting back in his seat, he watched Blake extinguish the fire in a cloud of cigarette smoke. He tried not to look when Blake took another drag and his cheeks hollowed. 

“‘old on, I’m gonna open the window,” Blake stood again and moved towards the window, “Mum’ll kill me,” he cracked it open wide, and the sound of the rain sounded closer. He crossed the room and shut the kitchen door, so that they were now closed off in their own little world, made up entirely of Blake’s kitchen. 

It was only at that moment that it occured to Will that he barely knew Blake. Well, he knew plenty about Blake already, from the stories he’d told, but they’d only just met. And now Will was shut in his kitchen, with no idea how to get back to his aunt’s house if things suddenly went south. Perhaps he was as stupid and niave as his parents seemed to think he was. Then again, Blake had invited him into his home, despite only meeting him half an hour ago. And Blake definitely knew less about him than Will did about him. They could each be a risk to each other, and yet they had both ignored that. There were two sides to every coin. Besides all that, if asked why he chose to come to Blake's, Will's only answer would be that there was something about Blake. Will couldn’t put his finger on what it was, but he already felt that he could trust this boy, if not with his life, then with something of almost equal value. This realisation was not as frightening as it should have been. 

Will took another deep drag, and this time couldn’t help the itchy cough that flew violently out of his mouth. Blake found it funny, of course, although when he laughed, it didn’t sound mean. Will chuckled too, realising that he had nowhere to tap the ash off the end of his fag. Instead of pointing it out, he chose to hold the cigarette at an awkward angle, making sure that the embers didn’t fall onto the table. 

It seemed that Blake had noticed his predicament, or at the very least, had realised he was having the same problem, and took a small plate out of a cupboard. He placed it onto the table between them as he sat down again, and tapped the end of his fag on the edge, indicating it was their makeshift ashtray. 

“So what’s it like then?” Blake asked. 

Will frowned, confused. “What’s what like?” 

Blake leaned over the table and whispered, as if someone else might hear him, “Y’know, grass.” 

“ _Oh_ , pot?” Will grinned cheekily, smiling wider when Blake flashed him a warning glare, “Yeah, it’s… it’s a gas.” 

“Yeah?” Blake was serious, eyes like saucers, as if Will were gifting him some sage words of wisdom. 

“Yeah, it’s…” Will blew out a long puff of smoke, feeling bad when most of it drifted across Blake’s face, “It’s fine. Better with people though.” And hoped that would be the end of the conversation. 

It was not. 

“But what’s it _feel_ like?” Blake was asking. 

Will rubbed his thumb across the crease that was forming in his forehead, and tried to recall what had happened last time he’d smoked, how he’d _felt_. He remembered a friend of a friend’s apartment, and a circle of people he half recognised. He remembered that it felt like smoking a flower, light and airy in the way that smoking tobacco felt heavy and dirty. He remembered the way that laughter bubbled easily in his throat, how everything was a lot funnier than it had been ten minutes earlier. And he remembered the boy sat next to him, his hand on his thigh, the way he’d caught his eye and they’d left the room, and then-

“Feels like being happy,” was all he said. 

Blake either found this an acceptable answer, or noticed that Will didn’t really want to talk about it. Either way, he dropped the subject. 

*

He found it was easy to lose track of time at Blake’s. Mrs Blake arrived home around four o’clock, and after a brief introduction, during which she scolded Blake for leaving him in wet clothes, Will found himself being pulled into Blake’s bedroom. 

The room was small, with clothes strewn over most surfaces. On the walls, Will noticed lots of posters of various musicians. In particular, Will noted The Beatles, and their television counterparts, The Monkees. 

“Sorry it’s such a mess,” Blake flushed, trying to clear a path between the shirts on the floor with his foot. 

“Don’t worry,” Will assured him quietly, looking intently at the posters instead of the clothes. 

“D’y’wanna borrow some clothes while yours dry? We can put yours by the fire,” Blake sits down on his bed, running a finger over the quilted blanket, “If you want.”

“I-” Will stammered, the thought of taking his clothes off momentarily stopping his mouth from forming words, “Maybe I could just sit by the fire instead.” 

“Alright,” was all Blake said, standing up again and gesturing for Will to leave the room. 

As he walked out, Will’s eyes swept over Blake’s room once more, taking in the framed photograph of a man with a clipped mustache, the small pile of notebooks, the discarded yoyo. Despite having heard so much about Blake already, just stepping into his bedroom made Will realise how much more he was yet to learn. 

They spent a while next to the fire in the Blakes’ living room, Blake poking it every so often, telling Will stories about Myrtle. Myrtle herself made an appearance shortly after, lying down next to Blake and resting her head on his leg. As he spoke, Blake absentmindedly stroked Myrtle’s head, and after some encouragement, Will ran his fingers through the fur on her back. A strange warmth was pooling in Will’s chest, seeping through his bones and settling in his veins. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he did know that it had little to do with the fire, and perhaps more to do with Blake’s voice, and Myrtle’s soft breaths, and the sounds of Mrs Blake in the kitchen. 

He was unaware of the hours passing until Blake’s brother arrived home, and Mrs Blake announced he was just in time for tea. 

“Are you stayin’ for tea, dear?” she stuck her head into the living room. 

“Oh, um,” Will stole a glance at Blake, who was just smiling at him, “Actually, I should probably be going-”

“Are you sure? It’s no trouble, love,” Mrs Blake was frowning a little, although she appeared more concerned than upset.

“Yes, I couldn’t possibly intrude,” he began to stand up, “Besides, my aunt, she’s probably expecting me back for tea.” 

That was a lie, of course. Mabel probably wasn’t expecting him back until late, and no doubt drunk. But Will already felt he’d overstayed his welcome. And as polite as Mrs Blake was, the thought of sitting at the dinner table with her made him squirm a little. Eating with his own parents was bad enough, without throwing someone else’s mother into the equation. 

“Oh, your aunt? Who’s your aunt?” Mrs Blake smiled. 

“Mabel Schofield.” 

“Oh, Mabel! How lovely.” Her smile faltered a little, and the lightness of her voice suddenly sounded a little forced. 

“I’ll walk you back if you want,” Blake jumped up beside him. 

“That’s nice of you, Tommy,” Mrs Blake said, “But tea’s ready! It’ll get cold.” 

“Just keep it warm for me, Mum,” Blake insisted, placing a hand on Will’s shoulder, “I reckon if we leave Scho to make his own way back, he’ll end up in some field ten miles away.” 

“I-” Will began to protest, but he couldn’t help smiling when he saw the glint in Blake’s eye. 

“Keep it warm? My goodness, you’d think I was runnin’ a hotel,” Mrs Blake rolled her eyes, “Alright Tom, but make sure you both have coats. It’s still raining cats and dogs out there.” And she disappeared back into the kitchen. 

“Best get goin’ then,” Blake squeezed Will’s shoulder, “Since you’ve got places you need ta be so _desperately_.” 

Will retied his trainers in the hall as Blake went to find a spare coat, despite Will’s insistence that he didn’t need one. 

“Mum’ll kill me if I let you get drenched again,” he explained. He returned with a dark raincoat, explaining that it was one of Joe’s rather than his own, but that it would probably fit Will better anyway. He put on his own coat and boots, and then they were ducking out of the door, Will calling over his shoulder how nice it was to meet Mrs Blake. 

Blake opened the umbrella and they fell into step together, hopping over the muddy puddles that had formed on the track that ran between the door and the gate. As they approached the gate, Will was reminded of his earlier embarrassment. And as much as he hoped Blake wouldn’t mention it, it seemed that he could read Will’s mind. 

“Myrtle’s inside,” he smirked, “So y’don’t need to take your chances with the gate this time.” 

“Thanks,” Will snorted.

The gate creaked as Blake opened it, and he gestured for Will to go first. 

“Age before beauty,” he joked, and then, following Will, he asked, “How old are you, anyway?” 

“I’m twenty,” Will said, “Twenty one in October.”

“Oh, cool,” his footfalls fell into the same rhythm as Will’s, “I’m eighteen, for now.” 

Will nodded at this. That explained the way Blake behaved like an overgrown puppy, so clearly young and trying hard not to be. 

“How long’ve you been stayin’ with your aunt, then?” Blake switched subjects, but was still decidedly probing Will for information. 

“I arrived today,” Will explained. 

“Oh,” Blake stopped still for a moment, “So I’ve stolen most of yer day up then?” 

“S’not like I had much else to be doing,” Will shrugged, “Besides, I think I’ll be here for a while. So I wouldn’t worry if I were you.” 

“A while?” Blake started walking again, “How long?” 

“I dunno,” Will shrugged, “Probably most of summer.” 

If he hadn’t glanced over at that moment, he would have missed the excited grin that graced Blake’s face. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, but it made his heart jump in his chest. 

“So I’ll be seein’ more of you then?” Blake asked. 

“Probably,” Will gave him a small smile. 

“Groovy,” Blake grinned back, before falling quiet. 

The walk back seemed to take less time than the journey down, perhaps because Will wanted it to last longer. It felt like no time at all had passed before they were back at the bus stop, huddled under Blake’s umbrella as they had been a few hours earlier. 

“So, pub?” Blake asked, a crooked smile on his face. 

“No, you’ve worn me out,” Will half-joked. He couldn’t imagine going to the pub now after sitting with Blake for so long. Well, he couldn’t imagine going to the pub alone, anyway. 

“Back ‘ome then?” 

“Back to Mabel’s,” he corrected. 

“Right. You probably know your way from here?”

“Yes,” Will laughed. 

“You sure? You don’t need a trusty guide, just in case?” he was joking - yet Will couldn’t help but wonder if he could detect a hint of hopefulness in Blake’s voice. 

“I’m sure, Blake,” he smiled, “Besides, your tea’s waiting.”

Blake grinned. “You’re right. See you ‘round then.” 

“See ya.” 

Will didn’t stop to watch Blake walk away, although a part of him wanted to. Instead he made his way back to Mabel’s cottage. It was only as he reached the front path that he realised he was still wearing Joe Blake’s raincoat. 

*

"Hello? Oh, Will, I forgot you were staying!" Mabel opened the door on Will's fifth knock. She let him in and closed the door. "Get you out the wet. You're back early," she sniffed the air once, "And decidedly sober. Pub not all you thought it would be?"

Will shrugged off the coat and slipped off his shoes. "I didn't end up going."

"Oh?" She took the coat from him and hung it up to dry, "So what _have_ you been doing these past few hours out in the wet?" She looked at the coat closely, "And whose coat is this?" 

A nervous chuckle bubbled in Will's throat. He knew that there was nothing wrong with telling her the truth, that he'd made a friend (or so he hoped). It wasn't like being at home with his parents, who disapproved of everyone Will met. Mabel wasn't like that, he was sure. And even if she was, it wasn't like he could lie to her about being at a library or browsing a record store, because there was nothing in the village for him to hide behind. 

"Met someone at the bus stop," he said, shoving his hands in his pockets, "Spent some time with them." 

Mabel beamed then, looking almost proud. "My my, making friends already. Who was it? Someone young?" 

"Tom Blake," he answered, shifting his weight onto one foot. 

"Ah, the Blakes," she smiled, seeming to float towards the kitchen, "Nice family. Even when…" she trailed off, eyes focused on something Will couldn't see. She snapped out of whatever reverie she was in as quickly as she'd fallen into it, and now walked briskly towards the oven. "Shall we have some soup for dinner?" she asked, wrapping the shawl tighter around her shoulders, and Will noticed that she hadn't changed out of the nightgown she'd been wearing upon his arrival. 

"Soup sounds good," Will said lightly, joining her in the kitchen. 

"Great, cut up some carrots for me please," Mabel instructed, taking a large pot from one of the cupboards, "The carrots are over there," she pointed, "and the knives are in the drawer by the sink. Use the chopping board." 

Will did as he was told, slicing the carrots into small pieces. Only once did he cut his finger, and that was when he let his mind wander, remembering the way Blake inhaled cigarette smoke. After drawing blood, he maintained that he would focus on the task at hand, and ignore the buzzing excitement he felt in his veins at having met Blake, and the accompanying anticipation of when he might see him again. 

Over dinner, Mabel questioned him on simple things, and he gave short, basic answers. She enquired about university, his hobbies, the music he liked. She asked if he wanted to watch television with her, or if he wanted to settle in properly upstairs, assuring him that she wouldn't mind either way. 

As they were clearing up, Will offering to wash the dishes, she told him that she wouldn't be attending the church service the next morning, and said that she wouldn't expect him to either, if he didn't want to. This caught Will off guard, having grown up being ordered to church every Sunday, regardless of whether he wanted to go or not. When he was at university, he didn't always attend, especially after an exciting Saturday night. But the Christian guilt would build up, and he usually found himself in attendance at least once a month. It was strange to meet someone from his parents' generation who didn't insist on attending the Sunday service, whether they believed in whatever the Father was preaching or not. 

Mabel had then disappeared to watch television, and left Will to wash up. It was whilst drying the dishes that it hit Will - the realisation that this was to be his life for the next few months. He would be here, in the middle of nowhere, doing nothing much until Eliza had her baby and his parents decided they wanted him back. Or until he went for his final year of university. Whichever came first. 

Well, he reasoned, nothing much is exactly what he'd normally be doing during the summer anyway. But this was a different kind of nothing much. Here, he couldn't disappear into a crowd of people he half knew, couldn't disappear into a beer or ten and stumble home at God knows when. The nothing much he'd be doing here looked an awful lot like what being a good son would look like at home. It was a little depressing, to tell the truth. 

He went up to the guest room after putting the dishes away, and lay down on top of the bed sheets. It was still raining, the drops tapping a rhythm on the roof above him. He thought again about Blake, the way he'd caught his eye across the street and taken pity on him. Will felt a little guilty as he realised that he probably wouldn't have done the same if it were him. 

Wishing he had his record player, he clicked on the radio and flicked through stations until he found a song he liked the sound of. He finally stripped off his clothes, which were, although mostly dry, still a little damp. 

If he were at home, he'd be planning his quiet escape. But here there was nowhere to escape to, unless he wanted to try going to the pub again. 

He slipped into pyjamas, and then under the covers of the bed. Although he'd slept in it before, it still felt more foreign than familiar - a little too hard under his shoulders, and a little too soft under the arch of his back. He wondered briefly if Mabel ever had any other visitors over to sleep in her guest bedroom, or if he and his sister were the only ones to ever use this bed. He wondered if they also found the mattress too soft in some places and too hard in others. 

Even though it was early, much earlier than he was used to, Will clicked the radio off and settled into an uneasy sleep. He dreamed of umbrellas and labradors, wooden gates and three teaspoons of sugar. And when he awoke, of course, he remembered none of it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a few notes  
> \- the village doesn't have a name because i dont want to base it off any real village and i cba to think of a name  
> \- i named mabel after auntie mabel from come outside  
> \- listen to bus stop by the hollies to hear a fun 60s song that lines up a lot with how tom and will meet
> 
> feel free to shout at me elsewhere, im mickydolenzs on both twitter and tumblr!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 2 already, because ive been writing all day like a little fiend  
> it's a little shorter than the last chapter, but hopefully just as good!

Will hadn't been intending on attending the church service the next morning, especially after his aunt's apparent indifference. In fact, he'd been hoping to sleep through it, meaning that the decision was effectively out of his hands; if it were God's will that he sleep until noon, so be it. 

But it seemed the Lord was not on his side. Having gone to sleep so early the previous night, he found himself waking up around seven, sunlight already streaming into the room. Seeing nothing better to do, he dressed and went down to the kitchen. He was hungry, but the thought of rummaging through Mabel's cupboards embarrassed him to the point of just grinning and bearing it. He settled for drinking tap water out of his own hand, wiping his hand on his trousers and hoping anyone he saw wouldn't notice the wet patch down his right thigh. 

In the hall, he pulled on his trainers - now thankfully dry - and, even though it was sunny outside, he grabbed the borrowed raincoat. Then he left, using the back door rather than the front; he had no key, and didn't want to leave the door unlocked. 

When he walked into the church, he felt a hopeful buzz in his stomach, for surely he would see the Blakes again. He needed to return the coat, if nothing else. But when he scanned the small congregation, he could see none of them. 

He sat at the back of the church, trying to avoid the curious glances of the other church-goers. The service was slow and tedious. Will went through the motions, though he was barely aware of it. He left as soon as the congregation were dismissed, and quickly realised that he had nothing to do. For a moment, he considered going to Blake's, under the pretense of returning the raincoat. Not that the raincoat was an excuse - he really did need to return it - but he mostly wanted something to do, and Blake was the only person around here he knew. Blake might be the only person here he _wanted_ to know. 

Thoughts of visiting Blake were quickly brushed away, as Will realised he couldn't remember the way, and didn't particularly fancy getting lost - even if he had nothing else to do. After walking one lap of the village green, he headed back to Mabel’s. 

Mabel was still asleep when he arrived, and when she finally awoke, she didn't ask where he'd been, or even indicate that she'd heard him leave. He spent the rest of the day reading and watching Mabel sew, secretly hoping that Blake might call at the house for him. 

But he didn't on Sunday, or Monday, or Tuesday. And by Wednesday, Will stopped hoping. 

*

As it happened, he didn't see Blake again until Friday, and it felt a little like deja vu. Will was standing at the bus stop outside the church, at the right time this time, when Blake strolled out of the shop across the road. He saw Blake before Blake spotted him. For a split second, Will considered hiding, since Blake had apparently been avoiding him; that would stop the moment from being awkward. But Blake caught his eye before Will could find anywhere to run to, and his face broke into a grin. 

"Scho!" he called out, jogging across the road to join him at the bus stop, "Fancy seein' you 'ere!" 

Confusion grasped at Will's brain. He'd been so sure that Blake had not wanted to see him. Why, then, did he now seem so eager? 

"Hi, Blake," Will half stammered, trying hard not to trip over his own tongue, "I'm, uh, trying the pub again." 

"Cool," Blake's mouth quirked in a smile, "Better weather conditions this time, ey?" 

Will breathed a laugh, "Yeah, and I'm getting the bus at the right time." 

Blake chuckled too, pulling a cigarette from his pocket. He offered one to Will who took it. Will watched as Blake then produced a lighter, having either found his, or acquired a new one. 

"Been hopin' I might see you around," Blake said through the cigarette, "Wondered if you'd turn up at mine one day."

Oh. _I'd been wondering the same_ , Will didn't say.

"Couldn't remember the way," he half joked. 

The lighter clicked a few times under Blake's thumb, before it burst into life. Blake lit both of their cigarettes again, and inhaled deeply before speaking again. 

"Well, we can't have that, can we?" The words spilled out on his smoke. 

"No, I suppose not," Will smirked around his fag. 

"But," Blake held his cigarette between two fingers and pointed towards, "I won't derail your crusade to the pub again. A man's gotta get his booze, after all. So another time." 

Will nodded, and they were both quiet for a few moments, nerves churning in Will's stomach as he built up the courage to ask, "D'ya wanna come to the pub with me?" 

Blake raised an eyebrow, but the way his lip quirked suggested that he'd just been waiting for Will to ask. Smug bastard. 

"I don't know what stop to get off at," Will added quickly, as if Blake needed a reason. 

"Alright then," Blake flicked his cigarette, "Since you're askin' so nicely." 

He then launched into a story about the first time he went to the pub for some drinks, on his eighteenth birthday. Apparently, he'd gone with his brother, but after a few drinks, he'd lost Joe. 

"So I went lookin' for him, right?" he said as he hailed the bus to stop, "And I found 'im outside with this bird." 

The bus came to a halt in front of them and opened its door. Will noticed how much smaller it was than the buses he was used to, and how it was mostly empty too. Blake stepped forward first, asking for two tickets to the next village over and placing a handful of pennies into the driver's hand. 

"Cheers," he said, taking the two tickets that were produced and heading down the bus. 

Will echoed a meek, "Thanks," before following Blake. 

"Anyway, where was I?" Blake asked around his cigarette as they sat down. 

"Your brother was outside the pub with a girl," Will informed him, straightening up so his shoulder didn't brush against Blake's. 

"Oh right, yeah. So I goes outside, find 'im there, and say, 'Oi, Joe, what the fuck are ya doin'? It's my _bloody_ birthday!' I was loaded by this point, one too many beers. So Joe comes over, and he's obviously a lot more with it than I am, and he comes and tries to calm me down. 

"He says, 'Sorry Tommy, I was just havin' a bit of fun out 'ere.' Now I'm about to 'ave a proper go, but this chick, she comes over an' starts mumblin' about how we shouldn't fight. Think she was a bit of a pacifist, lots'a love beads and what not. Then she starts puttin' her hands all over me, goin' on about my energies or somethin'. 

"Next thing I know, some bloke's shoutin' at me for makin' moves on his girl! An' I'm there, tellin' him I ain't done nothin', but of course she's still rubbin' her hands over me, so he don't believe it. Joe comes in then, tellin' this fella to back off, and suddenly they're at each other. I was too shocked to do anything, so I'm just stood there watchin' with this bird rubbin' me shoulders and tellin' me to let go of all my tension. So she was clearly blitzed, with no clue what was goin' on. Two minutes later, Joe's got a bloody nose, and tellin' me we gotta split. So we bail, end up runnin' all the way home."

"Wow," Will chuckled. 

"Worst birthday ever," Blake smirked. 

"You didn't even make it with that chick," Will teased. 

Blake laughed harder at that, "I weren't _tryna_ make it with that chick!" 

"Course not," Will grinned, because Blake was just a hot-blooded beast, was he not? He was - they all were - just looking for a chance to get his end away, wasn't he?

"Believe what you want," Blake shrugged, flicking his ash towards Will, "But I definitely weren't."

When Will feels something akin to relief, he pushes it down with a decisive last drag of his cigarette, before stubbing it out on his trouser leg. He pretends not to notice the way it burns a hole in the material, and chooses not to see the way Blake watches him with an unreadable expression, before turning to look out the window. 

*

When they arrive, the long-awaited pub is quiet and smokey. 

"Here it is," Blake gestured dramatically, "The Holy Land." 

Will snorted, and made his way over to the bar, where a single young woman was cleaning glasses. 

"Hello darlin'," Blake grinned at her, leaning one elbow on the bar. 

"Hello, 'ow can I help you?" she had a heavy French accent, Will noticed. She also seemed exhausted, but attempted to wear a bright and helpful mask anyway. 

"Just a coupla pints of lager please," Blake glanced at Will, "Anythin' for you Scho?" he joked. 

"Shut up," Will shoved him lightly. 

"That's nine shillings and two and a half pence please," the girl said, picking up two pint glasses. 

Will began to rummage in his pockets, determined that he would pay this time, but Blake had the right change on the bar in seconds. 

"Blake, at least let me pay for mine," he tried to protest, but Blake shook his head adamantly. 

"I've got it Scho, cool it," he paused, a serious expression on his face. A grin quickly broke through, "Next round's on you though," and Will could've sworn he _winked_. 

So Will let it slide, casting an eye around the pub. It was small and dark, the walls painted a deep red that made it feel even smaller and darker. There was a thick layer of grey on each of the windows, filtering the daylight through a smokescreen. All of the wood, including the bar, was a dark brown - mahogany, perhaps. In the corner, behind the bar, a radio crackled, hints of music playing out, but not loud enough to be properly heard by the patrons. Will counted three people in the pub, excluding himself, Blake, and the girl behind the bar. They were all middle aged men with red noses and rough beards, and they all sat alone. 

"'ere you are," the girl placed two full glasses of dark beer and pale froth onto the bar in front of them. She picked up the money Blake had left, thanked them, and moved away to the till. 

"Let's sit over there," Blake nodded to a table in the corner furthest from the door, before picking up his pint and heading over. 

Will took his pint and followed, taking the chair opposite Blake. Neither of them drank for a few moments, Will tapping his thumb against his glass, while Blake rummaged in his coat for another cigarette. He didn't ask if Will wanted one this time - it was simply understood. The cigarette lay next to Will's pint, and he wondered how they had so quickly and so easily fallen into a habit. 

"Tell me about yerself," Blake said, before lighting his fag and sliding the lighter across the table to Will. 

Will laughed nervously. "What is this, an interrogation?" 

"No, it's a date," Blake joked - because he _had_ to be joking. There was no way he could be serious. Two men didn't, _couldn't..._

Will's heart rose into his throat. Was Blake mocking him? Had he, somehow, found out what Will could barely admit to himself? _No_ , Will tried to reassure himself, _there was no way for him to know, no signposts for him to follow._

And indeed when he dared to catch Blake's eye, he found no malice there. Just a kind of softness. Just gentle joking. 

"Very funny," Will forced out a laugh before taking a long swig of his drink. His anxiety washed back down into his stomach, where he could safely ignore it. 

Blake's eyes stayed trained on him, examining his every move. As Will put down his glass, he could sense a small amount of froth clinging to his upper lip, and he half expected Blake to lean forward and wipe it away himself. He used his own sleeve to catch it. 

Then, he picked up the cigarette from the table and placed it between his lips, mirroring Blake, who was still watching him, expressionless. He took the lighter and tried to click it once, twice, three times. His hands were shaking, he noticed as if he were watching someone else. As if it were not a problem that belonged to him. When Blake reached over and found a steady hold of his wrist, he did not flinch. Nor did he react when Blake gently pried the lighter from his hand with a murmured, "Here," and lit the cigarette for him. 

"Cheers," he mumbled before taking a deep drag, letting the smoke fill him up in places no one could touch. He imagined the smoke like Blake's steady hands, reaching somewhere deep inside and holding him still. A wave of nausea hit when he exhaled. 

"So," he said at last, "What do you want to know?" 

Blake chuckled, finally tearing his eyes away from Will's face, watching his ash fall off the end of his fag. "Christ, you _are_ makin' it sound like an interrogation." He took a light sip of his beer that was mostly made up of foam, before saying, "Anythin', Scho. Tell me anythin' you want." 

A lone butterfly fluttered between Will's ribs. His problem - his fear - was that he was entirely uninteresting. If there was anything exciting about who he was, then he himself was yet to discover it. Now, sat opposite a person as fascinating as Tom Blake, he faced the truth that he was entirely too boring for anyone to get to know him. 

"I-" he struggled to find something - anything - in the crack where the ceiling met the wall, "You like The Beatles." 

This made Blake splutter with laughter, almost dropping his lit cigarette onto the table. 

"What?" Will relaxed into a smile, "What's funny?" 

"When I said _anythin_ '," Blake gasped between giggles, "I meant anythin' about _you_. Not _me_!" 

"No, no, wait," Will laughed too, genuine this time, "I was gonna say, _I_ like them too." 

"Well why didn't you just _say_ that then?" Blake cackled, dropping a hand to stroke his ribs as he calmed down, "Fuck me, you're somethin' else, ain't ya?" 

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" Will asked, as casually as he could muster. 

"Good," Blake answered immediately, seriously, "Definitely good." 

*

It was only eight when they left, the pub itself getting busier. Will had watched a stream of younger people enter, and when Blake had greeted them, they'd nodded back. But none of them stopped to make conversation. Although liquid courage made Will want to mention it, to ask what was up, his head was swimming too much for him to find the right words - something he was thankful of later. 

They'd had several rounds now, each making Blake more incoherent than the last. Will had lost track of who was buying, but the third time he'd been up to the bar, he'd asked the French girl her name - Lauri - and told her how nice she was. She didn't seem convinced, but accepted the compliment all the same. 

And at eight, Blake had pushed himself up on wobbly legs and slurred, "Le's get out uv 'ere." 

Arms slung over each other's shoulders, and swaying like drunken sailors, they made their way outside, to the bus stop down street. The air was cool, but not yet cold, and while it was dusky, it wasn't dark. 

"Perfect summer evening," Will announced loudly, though he wondered if anyone cared. 

He breathed in deeply through his nose, smelling pollen and petrol, and the strong scent of beer wafting off Blake. The fresh air was sobering. He stood a little steadier on his legs. 

"Fuckin' 'ell," Blake sighed, slipping onto the bench at the stop and letting his head loll backwards, "'aven't drunk this much in, mmm, fu- fuckin' _ages_." 

"Couldn't tell," Will chuckled, flopping down next to him. 

It was clear, out of the two of them, that Will had a higher tolerance for booze. It was unfortunate, then, that they'd been drinking at the same pace. At least Blake was definitely getting their money's worth. 

Neck still hanging over the back of the bench, Blake rolled his head to look at Will through half-lidded eyes. Even with almost an arm's length between them, Will suddenly felt too close. Even in the lowlight, Blake's eyes were bright blue, his stare, while clouded by intoxication, was still intense. He seemed to see right under Will's skin. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and for a moment, Will thought he was going to speak. Will felt himself tense, although he couldn't say why. 

But Blake just pulled himself up, leaning forward and fishing his cigarettes out of his pocket. 

"Fuck," he said, "Last one," and held out the offending item. 

"S'fine, you have it," Will rubbed a hand over his face, "S'yours." 

"Nah nah nah," Blake was shaking his head, "We can _share_ it."

"You a commie, Blake?" Will teased. 

"No, just polite," Blake said, taking the cigarette between his lips. 

It was now Blake's turn to fumble with the lighter, and Will's chance to cover Blake's hand with his own - and not notice how small Blake's hand looked under his. The lighter slipped out of Blake's fingers and Will ignited it with two clicks. He watched the way the flickering orange flame lit up Blake's face, throwing dancing shadows over his nose. He looked, for lack of a better word, pretty. 

"Cheers," Blake muttered when smoke started to curl around the end of the cigarette, and he took the lighter back from Will. 

"It's cool." 

Will withdrew his hands, placing them pressed together between his thighs. In case he did something stupid with them, like touch Blake. He didn't trust himself not to. 

"Here," Blake was holding out the lit cigarette for him to take. 

Despite the cool air sobering him up a little, Will was still decidedly drunk. And he was entirely intent on keeping his hands wedged firmly between his legs. For a second, he considered telling Blake no, that he couldn't take the fag. But the thought passed by almost as quickly as it came, replaced by what seemed like the best idea he'd ever had. 

Will leaned forward and closed his lips around the end of the cigarette, still held by Blake. The warmth of Blake's hand, so close to his face, was strange, but not discomforting. He heard Blake make a noise, something between a yelp and a laugh, as he took a deep drag. Will sat back and blew out a plume of smoke towards Blake, who appeared simultaneously amused and incredulous. 

"Of all the gin joints in the world," he muttered to himself, and Will just laughed. 

*

"We should go back to mine," Blake said as Will helped him off the bus, "Got more beer… Got more beer under me bed." 

"I don't think we need any more beer," Will smiled, guiding them onto the green. 

They sat down on the grass. It was darker now, with the street lamps around them bursting into life. 

"I think it'd be… it'd be good, if we had some more," Blake babbled, rolling onto his back. 

"I think it would be good if we had some _water_ ," Will sighed, lying down next to Blake, shoulder to shoulder. 

"Mmm. Got water under m'bed too. Lots 'n' lots." 

"Right," Will laughed. 

"No," Blake rolled onto his stomach and propping himself up on his forearms, looking with unfocused eyes down at Will, "I don't 'ave water under me bed. Or beer. Jus' wan'ed you to come in my bedroom again." 

A shiver as cold as ice ran down Will's spine. He swallowed. Deep breath. Obviously Blake didn't mean it like _that_. Obviously. 

"I tidied," Blake continued, oblivious to Will's panic, "Case you came over again. S'all clean now." 

"Cool," Will croaked. He tried not to think about Blake, waiting at home, just in case Will turned up. Tried not to think about him doing the same. 

"You like The Beatles," Blake said, "We could listen to my records. Got all of 'em." 

"Not tonight," Will smiled softly, "Another time. You need to get to bed." 

"Bed?" Blake snorted, "S'not even nine." 

Any words Will might've had caught in his throat as he looked at Blake - _really_ looked, in a way he wouldn't, couldn't, let himself when he was sober. Blake had thick eyelashes, he noted. Thick and dark. And Blake's nose, the way it gently sloped down… His mouth, lower lip hanging slightly over his chin… A curl of dark hair lying gently on his forehead. And of course his eyes, piercing blue- 

"Joe's raincoat!" Will jolted up to sitting, remembering suddenly the coat that still hung in his aunt's hallway. 

"Wha?" Blake's nose wrinkled in confusion. 

"I've still got Joe's raincoat!" Will explained, pushing himself onto his feet, "I need to give it back." 

From the ground, Blake giggled. "Cool it, mate. Don't think Joe's even noticed it's gone." 

"But what if he does?" Will said, tugging at Blake's arm, "Come _on_ , let's go get it." 

"Alright," Blake allowed himself to be pulled up, steadying himself with a hand on Will's shoulder. 

Before Will had the chance to step away, Blake threw his arms around Will's neck in a messy, drunken hug. Will froze, hands hovering next to Blake's hips. 

"I know it sounds stupid," Blake was saying next to his ear, "Bu' you're my best mate."

Something inside Will, something he didn't even know was there, went soft and light. Gently, he placed a hand on Blake's back, between his shoulder blades. 

"Yeah?" he asked quietly, "Bet you say that to all the city boys." 

Blake chuckled, deep and low, before releasing Will and stepping back. 

"C'mon," Will said, before Blake had the chance to say anything else, "Let's go." 

He hoped that in the fading light, Blake couldn't see him blush. 

When they reached Mabel’s, Blake seemed suddenly tense. Will knocked twice, and Mabel called back, "It's open," inviting him to let himself in. 

"I've got Tom Blake with me," Will announced as he opened the door, a warning in case Mabel was ill-prepared for company. 

"Ohh, hello Tom," Mabel floated out of the kitchen, clutching a tea towel, "My, it's been a while." 

"Hullo Miss Schofield," Blake held out his hand for her to shake. 

"How's your mother?" Mabel smiled, taking his hand gladly. 

"She's quite well, Miss Schofield, thank you," Blake nodded politely, "And yourself?" 

Will noticed that his accent had become less pronounced with Mabel, and smirked as he shut the door behind them. 

"Oh, I'm fine, lovely," Mabel's smile tightened as she released Blake's hand, "Will, before I forget," she turned to him, "Your mum called while you were out." 

Panic stuttered in Will's chest. "What did she want? Is Eliza okay?" 

"Don't worry, darling, she was just checking in," Mabel twisted the tea towel in her hands, "Call her back later, if you've got the chance. I'm sure she'd love to hear from you." 

Will nodded, calming down but only slightly. Speaking to his mother wasn't exactly an exciting prospect. Mabel disappeared back into the kitchen, and Will was suddenly aware of Blake's presence next to him. 

"D'you want to go sit down?" he offered, slipping his shoes off by the door. 

"Yeah, in a minute," Blake nodded, and Will noticed he was looking decidedly pale, "Can I use the toilet?" 

"Yeah, course," Will started towards the stairs, "You alright?" 

"Yeah, m'fine." 

"Mind your head," Will warned as they reached the top of the stairs, "It's just through there," he pointed to the bathroom door, "I'll be downstairs." 

Almost as soon as Will started back down the stairs, he heard Blake retching, and grimaced to himself. The curse of drinking. 

In the living room, Will sat down next to the phone and slowly dialled his parents' phone number. His father picked up on the fourth ring. 

"Hello?" he sounded as gruff and pissed off as ever. 

"Hi Dad, it's me." 

"Oh, hello. Your mum's in the bath I'm afraid." 

"Oh," Will said, "Okay." 

There was a painful pause, during which Will considered just hanging up. 

"You behaving?" his father asked bluntly. 

"Yes." 

"Good, good," he inhaled sharply. 

"How's Eliza?" 

"Oh, she's, she's just here, you can talk to her yourself. Eliza!" 

Will heard the phone changing hands, and knew his father wouldn't be coming back. 

"Will?" his sister asked. 

"Hi Lizzy," he smiled. It had been a while since he'd heard his sister's voice, and he always felt a wave of comfort whenever she said his name. 

"Everything alright?" she sounded tight, preoccupied. 

"Um, yeah, I was just wondering how you were. Is everything okay?" 

"Oh, yeah, no, everything's fine, I'm fine. Susie's just not going down, and Jack's out at the pub, so…" she trailed off and sighed, "Everything's fine," she repeated decidedly. 

"If Susie's awake, can I speak to her?" Will loved speaking to his niece, and the fact he'd been sent away before he could see her added to the sting of being forced to leave. 

"Will, you'll get her all excited, she'll never go to sleep!" 

"What if I sing her a lullaby?" 

Eliza clicked her tongue twice, before relenting. "Fine. Don't hang up." 

Will smiled to himself, listening to the vague noises of his sister climbing up the stairs. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend he was at home again, sitting in the kitchen while Eliza ran upstairs to find a toy for them to play with. At least for a moment. 

He heard Susie's giggles long before she reached the phone. 

"Here, Uncle Will's on the phone," Eliza was whispering, "See, hold it like this, speak into there, say 'Hello, Uncle Will!'" 

"Lo Uncle Will!" came an excited voice down the line. 

Will beamed. "Hello, is that Susie?" 

"Yes!" she giggled. 

"Well Susie, someone told me it's past your bedtime." 

"But I'm not tired." He could hear her pout through the speaker. 

"What if I tell you a bedtime story?" he asked. 

"I like stories," she sounded excited again. 

"Okay, I'll tell you a bedtime story, but _only_ if you _promise_ to go to sleep after. Okay?" 

She was quiet for a few moments, as if deliberating. "Okay," she answered at last. 

"Promise?" 

"I promise." 

"Okay," Will smiled, "Are you listening?" 

There was silence for a moment, before Eliza whispered, "She nodded." 

"Good," Will stifled a giggle, "They went to sea in a Sieve, they did,

In a Sieve they went to sea:

In spite of all their friends could say,

On a winter’s morn, on a stormy day,

In a Sieve they went to sea!

And when the Sieve turned round and round,

And every one cried, ‘You’ll all be drowned!’

They called aloud, ‘Our Sieve ain’t big,

But we don’t care a button! we don’t care a fig!

In a Sieve we’ll go to sea!’

Far and few, far and few,

Are the lands where the Jumblies live;

Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,

And they went to sea in a Sieve."

He heard the creak of a floorboard, not over the phone this time, but in Mabel's cottage. He turned to see Blake, peering around the door at him. Blake smiled, and moved fully into the doorway, leaning against the jamb with his arms crossed. Will gave a small smile back, before continuing. 

"They sailed in a Sieve, they did,

In a Sieve they sailed so fast,

With only a beautiful pea-green veil

Tied with a ribbon by way of a sail,

To a small tobacco-pipe mast;

And every one said, who saw them go,"

0 won't they be soon upset, you know!

For the sky is dark, and the voyage is long,

And happen what may, it's extremely wrong

In a Sieve to sail so fast!"

Far and few, far and few,

Are the lands where the Jumblies live;

Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,

And they went to sea in a Sieve.

" The water it soon came in, it did,

The water it soon came in;

So to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet

In a pinky paper all folded neat,

And they fastened it down with a pin.

And they passed the night in a crockery-jar,

And each of them said, "How wise we are!

Though the sky be dark, and-" 

"She's drifting off," Eliza whispered suddenly, interrupting, "I'm gonna take her up to bed. Thank you, Will."

"No problem," Will murmured back, "Goodnight Susie." 

"Goodnight," Eliza replied, before hanging up the phone. 

With a warm feeling in his chest, Will put down the receiver. 

"Feeling better now?" he turned to Blake. He beckoned for Blake to come in. 

Frowning in confusion, Blake perched on the arm of Will's chair. "Feelin' better?" 

"After throwing up," Will explained. 

"Oh," one of Blake's hands flew to the back of his own head, rubbing up and down almost sheepishly, "You 'eard that?" 

"Yes, I did." 

"Right, sorry." 

"Don't worry about it, Blake. Just, are you feeling better?" 

Blake threw him a sidelong glance, and smiled, "Yeah, cheers," he paused, "So who was you talkin' to on the phone?" 

It was Will's turn to look away, embarrassed. He twisted his fingers together in his lap. "My niece," he explained, "She's three." 

When he looked up, Blake was beaming at him, his full dazzling smile on show. "That's cute. Hoped you weren't tellin' a bedtime story to yer mum." 

Will snorted. 

"You know that whole poem off by 'eart then?" Blake asked. 

Will thought for a moment. "I suppose I do. My grandma used to read it to me whenever we stayed at hers." 

"Sweet," Blake eyed him with an unfamiliar expression, before standing up straight. "I better be gettin' home. Mum'll think I've been abducted by aliens." 

"Or kidnapped?" Will stood up next to him. 

"Nah, she says I talk too much for anyone to wanna kidnap me." 

They both laughed. The air suddenly felt tense, as if something had changed, although it was nothing Will could name. 

"You'll be okay on your own?" he asked, remembering the way Blake had staggered off the bus. 

"Me? I'll be fine," Blake patted him lightly on the shoulder, "Reckon I sicked up most of what I drank."

They made their way to the hall, Blake pulling on his boots, and Will standing awkwardly with his hands in his pockets. 

"Wait, before I go," Blake straightened up, "You got some paper, and a pen?" 

"Uh, yeah, probably. Why?" 

"I wanna give you my phone number, so you don't have to worry 'bout gettin' lost on the way to mine." 

"Oh," Will felt heat rising up his neck, into his cheeks, "Yeah, I'll go…" 

Back in the living room, he found a notepad and pen that Mabel kept next to the phone. He held it out to Blake, who took it and quickly started scribbling. 

"Here," Blake handed the notebook back closed, "I'll be off then." He swivelled on his heels and opened the door. 

"Wait, Joe's coat," Will remembered, placing the notepad and pen on the side table, and running to find the offending item. 

"Good thing one of us has brains," Blake chuckled when Will returned, throwing the coat carelessly over his shoulder. He turned to leave again, taking a few steps before stopping and looking back. "Don't s'pose you could tell me how the rest of that poem goes, could ya?" 

Will smiled, leaning against the doorway, "It's too long, Blake. You need to get home."

"Alright, just that verse then. The one you were sayin' before. Please," he pressed his hands together as if begging. 

"Okay, okay," Will relented with a laugh, "I'll do that verse again:

The water it soon came in, it did,

The water it soon came in;

So to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet

In a pinky paper all folded neat,

And they fastened it down with a pin.

And they passed the night in a crockery-jar,

And each of them said, "How wise we are!

Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long,

Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong,

While round in our Sieve we spin!"

Far and few, far and few,

Are the lands where the Jumblies live;

Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,

And they went to sea in a Sieve." 

Blake was gazing at him, as if awestruck. There was a strange glint in his eye that Will immediately put down to the lack of lightning. But the soft half-smile on his face was undeniably affectionate, as if Will had just given him something special. Will thought he might burn up on the spot. 

"Goodnight, Blake," he prompted, when Blake remained still. 

"Night Scho," Blake turned, and wandered off into the dark. 

*

Will ate a light supper with Mabel, during which she called Blake a "very nice boy," on several occasions. She also had a strange look in her eye, one that Will didn’t recognise. It almost felt like she knew something, but Will brushed that thought away, for there was nothing for her to know. 

They then went into the living room, and Mabel opened up her record collection. Surprisingly, she had several of the earlier Beatles albums, and the pair sat together and listened to Please Please Me from start to end. 

It was only when he was heading up to bed that Will remembered that Blake had written down his phone number. He opened up the notepad to the most recent page, where Blake had written eleven neat digits. Above, he'd written "Tom Blake", and below, it read "You better call or you'll be sorry!" Will snorted, and ripped the page out. He took it with him upstairs, and if he traced Blake's handwriting with his finger before he went to sleep… Well, that didn't mean a thing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed the inherent homoeroticism of lighting your bro's cigarette while it's in his mouth  
> also, of course, i included the first 3 verses of the jumblies by edward lear, because why the fuck not?  
> feel free to leave a comment, or shout at me on my other socials (mickydolenzs on twt + tumblr)  
> have a lovely day


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another shorter chapter! or maybe the first chapter was just a monster  
> i wrote the first section sporting a hangover very similar to will's   
> the characters tried to sabotage this chapter several times, so i had to wrestle it back in the direction i wanted it to go lmao  
> hope you enjoy

The hangover that greeted him with the birdsong the next morning was, thankfully, mild. Nothing like Blake's would be, he imagined, remembering how he'd swayed and retched. No, it was nothing more than a light headache, as if he'd hit his head, accompanied by slight nausea. For breakfast, he had an apple and a cup of cold water.

All morning, he thought about calling Blake, carrying around the folded piece of paper with Blake's number on it all around the house; he'd picked it up off his bed side before breakfast, tucking it into the waistband of his pyjamas, moving it to his trouser pocket when he got dressed, and slipping it into his wallet when he went to the shop to buy more milk. At the counter, he glimpsed a corner of the paper, and made a last second decision to buy a box of cigarettes too. The ones that Blake smoked. 

Still, it was only later, when he was sure Mabel was busy, that he dared sit down next to the phone. After folding and unfolding the paper with Blake's number on it several times, he pressed the sheet flat against the arm of his chair, straightening it out, and with a shaking finger, he dialled the number.

After four rings, he worried Blake had given him a false number. 

After eight, he nearly put the phone down. 

But the ninth ring was cut short by someone at the other end of the line picking up the receiver. 

"'ello?" a voice panted, as if they'd run to answer. The voice, Will noted, did not belong to Blake - it was too deep, too rough. 

His stomach flipped. "Um, hi, is Tom there? It's Will." 

"Will?" the voice, presumably belonging to Joe, asked, "Oh, Scho? Tom's new mate?" 

"Uh, yeah. That's me." 

"'old on, I'll get 'im. Tommy!" Joe bellowed, and even though he held the phone away from his face, the shout was loud enough to make Will wince. 

"Thank fuck you've called," Joe continued in a low voice, "He won't shut up about ya. I was gettin' worried he was stalkin' ya." 

Heat flushed Will's face and he knew that he was bright pink. He was glad Joe couldn't see him through the phone. 

"Just be careful with 'im," Joe was saying, "He's a bit like a lost puppy." 

"Joe, what're you sayin'?" Will was relieved to hear Blake's voice in the background, then speaking in hissing whispers that Will couldn't make out. Joe just laughed and handed the phone over. 

"Hello?" Blake said, "Scho?" 

"Hello Blake," an easy smile pressed itself onto Will's face, entirely against his will. 

"Sorry about Joe, he's a bit of a knob." 

Somewhere on the other side of the phone, Joe cackled. 

With a chuckle, Will assured him that it was fine, that Joe was perfectly pleasant. And, although he was tempted, he didn't ask whether Blake had been talking about him. 

"I was startin' to worry you wasn't gonna call," Blake admitted, "Kinda hoped I'd come home last night to the phone ringin'." 

"Thought I should let you get some rest," Will felt a tug in his chest at Blake's honesty. He was like an open book. "How's the head by the way?" 

Blake's sheepish chuckle made him smile. "Oh, mate, bloody  _ awful _ . Shouldn't've 'ad so much. Sorry if I were a bit of a mess."

"Don't worry, you were fine." 

He tried not to remember the way Blake had said he wanted him in his room. Just the thought sent his heart lurching into his throat. 

"Thank you for coming with me, by the way," he continued, "It was nice to have some company." 

"S'alright," Blake replied, "Reckon if I wasn't there you mighta banged that bird, y'know, the French one." 

Will spluttered, choking on the very idea that he would've made it with Lauri. "No," he coughed, "No  _ way _ ." 

"You're jokin' right? I saw the way you was makin' eyes at her," Blake teased, although there was an edge to his voice. 

"I  _ wasn't _ , I promise," Will insisted. 

"Well why not? D'ya not like brunettes? Prefer blondes?" 

Will thought of Blake's dark hair, curling on his forehead, around his ears. "No," he said, quieter now, "I just wasn't interested." 

"Alright," Blake let it go. 

There was silence for ten beats of Will's heart - he hadn't even noticed that it was racing - while he searched for something to say. Thankfully, Blake seemed to find something first. 

"You should come over." It wasn't a question. 

"Yeah?" Something inside Will fluttered, stuttered. 

"Yeah. We're prunin' the sweet cherry trees, but I reckon I could get out of it. For you." 

The last two words made Will inhale deeply, slowly, as if he might shatter. He didn't think two words could make him feel dizzy, turned inside out, but here he was, head spinning while he sat perfectly still. 

_ God, yes _ , he wanted to say.  _ Let's sit in your bedroom, and listen to your records. I bought you some more fags. We could share one again.  _

Instead, he asked, "Are you sure?" 

"Well…" he heard Blake hesitate, "Mum might not like it. But she likes you." 

"She does?" 

"Yeah," Blake snorted, "Says you're really polite. Apparently I could learn a thing or two from you." 

"Well, I don't mind teaching you," Will tried to joke. But his words fell a little flat, and instead of laughing, Blake cleared his throat. 

"So what d'ya say?" Blake asked, "You'll come? I can meet ya by the church if you've forgot the way." 

And "yes" was balancing on the tip of Will's tongue, so ready to escape back into the comfort of Blake's home, and indeed, of Blake himself. "Yes," he was about to say, "I'll see you there." 

But at the same moment, he heard a scream from the kitchen, followed by the smashing of pottery. 

"Mabel?" he shouted, wrenching forward out of the chair, "I'm sorry, I think something's happened," he explained to Blake, "I have to go, I'll call you back." 

"Hope everything's alright," Blake's voice crackled down the line, worried, and Will felt guilty as he slammed the phone down without another word. 

"Mabel?" he called again, hurrying to the kitchen. 

He found his aunt curled up in a corner, sobbing loudly. She had her arms wrapped around herself, as if she were both the mother and the crying child she was trying to comfort. On the other side of the room, next to the doorway, lay fragments of shatter plate. The painted roses that lined the plate's rim were scattered over the kitchen tiles, the red flowers reminding Will of blossoming spots of blood. 

"Auntie?" he asked softly, walking slowly towards her, the same way he might a wounded creature. 

"Oh Will," she cried, "Will, I'm so silly." 

He crouched in front of her, placing a careful hand on her forearm. 

"It's okay," he shushed her, and was reminded of the time Susie had fallen over and hurt her knee, how he gently reassured her, "What happened? Are you hurt?" 

The set of her arms softened, and her sobs petered out, as she said, "I was very silly, Will. I- I thought I saw h-  _ someone  _ in the doorway. And I was scared, scared someone had broken in. And I didn't know where you were, I- I was worried, so I screamed. And I threw a plate. But there wasn't anyone," she exhaled out of her nose, closing her eyes. Her voice wobbled, "And it was one of my favourite plates." 

"We all make mistakes," Will told her, lightly squeezing her forearm. Trying to seem sturdy, even though his heart was racing. "Why don't you sit at the table, and I'll sweep up the plate?" 

It was like role reversal, he thought, as he pulled his aunt onto her feet. She was the child, fragile and upset, making him the adult. He must take care of her. He retrieved the dustpan and brush from the cupboard under the sink, and carefully brushed the pieces up. He tried not to wince every time porcelain clinked against porcelain.

"What do you think?" he asked, placing the dustpan on the table, "Can it be fixed?" 

Mabel looked at it for a few moments, studying the cracks and curves. She had stopped crying now, but there were still tear tracks shining on her cheeks. Will had never seen someone look so simultaneously young and old. Eventually, she nodded. 

"There's super glue in the cupboard under the stairs," she told him as she reached for the pieces. 

So the two of them spent the afternoon piecing together the broken plate, only speaking to say, "I think that piece fits here." Another time, the quiet might've been unnerving, but Will settled into it, thinking over what Mabel had said again and again. She'd seen someone, or thought she had, and had thrown the plate out of fear. He wondered if she normally imagined people. He wondered if it would happen again. 

When they finished, the plate was held together by spider webs of glue. Will felt the same pride he felt as a child when he finished a jigsaw, and Mabel seemed pretty pleased too. She held it carefully up to the window, and chuckled at the way the sunlight peered through the cracks. 

As she held it, Will noticed a final fragment on the table, a small sliver of the rose pattern that ran around the edge. He picked it up. 

"Wait, Mabel, is there a piece missing?" 

She turned back to him and showed him the plate, no gaps visible whatsoever. 

"Weird," he said, holding up the spare pottery. 

He stood to put it in the bin, but Mabel stopped him with a hand on his elbow. 

"Keep it," she told him, smiling, "It's yours." 

Keep it. For what? Will looked at it again, running his thumb gently over one of the edges. There was nothing he could use it for. Still, not wanting to disappoint his aunt, he put it into his pocket, in the space where he'd kept Blake's phone number. It pressed lightly against his thigh. 

It was only later, when he was getting ready to go to bed, that he realised he hadn't called Blake back like he'd promised. He checked the clock on his bedside. Half past ten. Blake was sure to still be awake, but he knew it was rude to call after nine o'clock. He was certain Mrs Blake wouldn't appreciate it. 

After retrieving the paper from next to the phone and saying goodnight to Mabel, he lay down on top of the bed sheets. As he had done the night before, he traced Blake's writing with his index finger, following each curve and straight line. 

_ You better call or you'll be sorry! _

He found himself getting stuck on the "sorry". He traced it over and over, hoping that somehow Blake would know he was sorry, and that he'd understand. 

Eventually he put the paper, folded neatly, on his bedside. Next to it, lay the fragment of Mabel's plate. He studied the pattern again. In the half light, he thought the fractured rosebuds looked more like cherries. 

*

Sunday morning, Will didn't go to church. Instead, he sat at the kitchen table, studying the plate he and Mabel had fixed. Next to it, he had placed the paper with Blake's number on, and the leftover fragment, carrying them around as if they were newly formed extensions of himself. He ran his thumb lightly across one of the cracks. No matter what angle he looked at it, he couldn't find the place his fragment had come from. How odd, he thought, that something that had once made up the whole could so easily be pushed out, no longer needed. 

He called Blake's number around noon, and was a little disappointed when Mrs Blake answered. 

"'ello?" 

"Hi, it's Will." 

"Oh, hello Will, how are ya?" He could hear the smile in her voice. Perhaps Blake was right - she did like him. 

"I'm fine, thank you Mrs Blake, how are you?" 

"Oh, so polite," she chuckled, "If only my boys were as well mannered. I'm wonderful, Will, thank you for askin'. Now, what can I do for ya?" 

Will swallowed. "I was wondering if Tom was about." 

"I'm afraid not, love. He's popped up to the village with Myrtle."

"Oh, okay. Thank you," Will's heart sank, guilt spiking the inside of his throat. 

"I'll tell him you called, love. Was there anythin' in particular you needed?" 

"No, no thank you, Mrs Blake. I just wanted to have a chat really."

"How lovely," she cooed, "I'll get him to call when he gets back, is that alright?" 

"Yes, thank you Mrs Blake." 

"See you soon, love." And the line went dead. 

It was only after Will put down the receiver that he realised he didn't think Blake had Mabel's phone number. The guilt sank a little further, resting heavy just beneath his collarbone. He so badly wanted to explain, or find an excuse for, why he hadn't called back. But more than that, he just wanted to speak to Blake, and hear one of his stories. 

As it happened, he didn't have to worry about Blake having Mabel's number or not. While filling up the kettle in the kitchen, he heard a knock at the front door. 

"Will, answer the door!" Mabel called from upstairs, sounding half asleep. 

And there at the door was Blake, shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other. Behind him, Myrtle was sniffing around Mabel's overgrown plants, every so often taking a curious nibble. 

"Blake!" Will said. 

He was surprised that Blake would take it upon himself to stop by. From the wide eyed way Blake was looking at him, it seemed Blake was surprised himself. 

"Hi," Blake raised one side of his mouth in a half smile. 

"What're you doing here?" Will stepped outside, painfully aware that he wasn't wearing shoes, and closed the door behind him. He wasn't sure how Mabel would feel if she found a large labrador in her house, but he didn't want to risk another broken plate. 

"Oh, y'know," Blake shoved his hands into his pockets, casting an eye around the front garden, "I was in the area." He huffed a laugh, but when he caught Will's eye, there was something a little distant about him. "Just wan'ed to make sure you was alright. You didn't call back. I was worried about ya." 

Will grimaced, and turned his gaze to the ground, where his grey socks almost matched the stone path. Guilt now rested solidly on his chest, to the right of his heart, and refused to move. 

"I'm sorry," he said, putting his hands into his own pockets, a reflection of Blake. Under his fingers, he found the plate fragment, the folded paper. "I was looking after Mabel. She was a bit upset." 

Blake inhaled sharply through his nose, but didn't speak. 

"I called earlier," Will continued, "But you were, well, out." 

His heart sank when Blake said nothing, just nodding. 

“Do you wanna go in the garden?” he asked, suddenly desperate to keep Blake here. Everything felt off-kilter, and he was certain that if Blake left it would remain that way. 

“Alright,” Blake gave him a small smile. It was as if he could see Will’s desperation, his aching guilt, and was now trying to ease it, although not absolving him completely. “C’mon, Myrtle,” he whistled. 

Not wanting to lead Myrtle through the house, Will beckoned him around the side of the house, wincing as a sharp piece of gravel stuck up through his sock. The garden was just as overgrown as the front of the house, grass standing tall and wildflowers blooming. A line of clothes was hung out to dry, the bottoms of the longer items being brushed by blades of grass and dandelion heads. Myrtle seemed to like the garden, dashing forward and snapping playfully at the taller flowers. 

“Do you want a drink?” Will offered, him and Blake now standing next to the backdoor, “I was about to make tea.” 

Blake studied Will for a few moments, as if he were hiding a secret intention in the creases of his face. Perhaps he thought Will would just disappear again. 

“Alright, if you’re already makin’ tea.”

“Three sugars, right?” Will asked, as he opened the backdoor. 

A slight smile surprised Blake’s face. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “Three sugars.” 

Will entered the kitchen, taking the kettle to boil on top of the oven. He left the backdoor open, inviting Blake to join him, should he choose to. But Blake remained outside, laughing as Myrtle rolled over and over in the grass. When the water was heated, Will made a pot of tea, pouring two cups, and dressing the teapot in a cozy, to keep the remaining liquid warm. Milk in both, three sugars in Blake’s. 

“Here,” he passed Blake his drink, to a mumbled thanks, before walking out into the garden and taking a seat in the grass, under the shade of one of Mabel’s trees. The tree had beautiful purple blooms hanging down, as it leaned itself against a barely visible shed. Wisteria, he remembered it being called. 

With a sigh, as if he were old and tired, Blake sat down opposite him. 

“I’m sorry for not calling you back,” Will said again. 

“No, no, don’t worry about it,” Blake waved a hand around in front of him, rejecting Will’s apology. His rings glinted in the sun. “I was just overreactin’.” 

“I still should have called,” Will mumbled. 

“No, Scho, forget about it. See? It’s forgotten!” he wiped his hand across his face, plastering on a smile. 

Will chuckled, the weight on his chest easing slightly. “I still feel bad about it.” 

“Scho, if you don’t shut up, I will wack ya.” 

“Yeah?” Will challenged, raising an eyebrow. 

“Yeah,” Blake grinned back. He placed his cup of tea on the ground, and launched himself towards Will, landing on top of him. 

“Blake!” Will laughed, struggling as Blake wrestled him onto his back, limbs flailing. 

“Say sorry again Scho, I fuckin’ dare ya,” Blake teased, hands around Will’s wrists, straddling his ribs. 

Pulling one of his arms free, Will shoved lightly at Blake’s shoulder. “Alright Blake, I get the point.”

Blake grabbed at Will’s arm again, this time taking hold of Will’s hand, rather than his wrist. He pushed Will’s arms above his head, pressing them into the grass. Leaning close to Will’s ear, he whispered, “Do you surrender?” 

As his warm breath hit Will’s ear, ghosting over his cheek, down his neck, Will shivered. He couldn’t help it. All of the weight in his chest had now melted, turning from guilt into a hot, shaking- was that lust? As if suddenly waking from a dream, he realised how close they were. Blake was sat  _ on top of him _ for fuck’s sakes. The press of Blake’s fingers around his wrist, over his palm, suddenly felt like burning brands, sinking deep into his flesh and marking him for everyone to see. He had to stop this, he thought, as Blake’s slight panting next to his ear sent a jolt of something he refused to name down below his waist. 

“Yes, I surrender, now let me go,” he said quickly. 

Blake released his arms, but remained sat firmly over Will’s ribs, apparently unaware of the way Will’s heart was threatening to break through his bones. He sat up straight and looked down at Will through half-lidded eyes. His lips were slightly parted as he caught his breath. Above him, the purple wisteria flowers reached down, and above that, the sun shone bright, forming a golden halo behind his head. He looked sinfully angelic, if that were even possible. Will couldn’t breathe. 

“Gerroff,” he gasped, pushing at Blake’s knees, “You’re crushing my ribs.”

With a soft laugh, Blake stood, swinging his leg over so he no longer straddled Will, before flopping back onto the ground next to him. He launched into a story about how he and Joe had boxed when they were younger, how he’d nearly broken Joe’s nose after he got carried away and headbutted him in the face. Will was only half listening, unable to stop replaying the last minute in his head. Blake hovering above him, like an apparition, so lazily whispering into his ear. As if he had no idea how much of an effect he was having on Will. 

Well, he didn’t, Will supposed. Normal boys, boys like Blake, didn’t think the things that Will thought, didn’t feel the way that Will did. How, then, could he blame Blake? Boys looking for a fight was one of the village’s main exports, after all. 

“Do you go to church?” Will asked, when Blake finished his story. He couldn’t help it. As he lay there in the grass, he could feel God’s heavy stare upon him. The guilt in his chest returned, although this time it was for a completely different reason. 

“Church?” Blake frowned, sitting up and reaching for his tea cup.

“It’s just, you said, in that story about the bloke who started stealing from you, that he’d come over after church. But I went last week, and I didn’t see you there. So I was wondering if you still went.”

“Oh, right,” Blake took a sip of his tea, “I don’t really. Not anymore. Mum goes sometimes. So does Joe. But they don’t make me go no more. So I don’t.” 

Will looked at him with one eye, closing the other to keep the sun out. He noticed that Blake’s shoulders had hunched a little, and he was now staring into his drink, as if it held all the answers. 

Turning away, Will hummed his acknowledgement, before asking, “Do you believe in it?” 

“In what?”

“God.” 

“What, the big man?” Blake chuckled, but it came out as more of a sigh, “Yeah, I believe in ‘im. Just got better things to do than sit in church every Sunday mornin’.” 

Will thought on this. He’d never really considered that you could believe in something without openly displaying it. Religion, he’d always thought, was something you showed, rather than something you felt. And yes, he believed in God, was afraid of the wrath he might face for his misdoings, but he’d only really thought about it in church. The house of God, right? The place he felt most unsafe, when laid bare in front of the Lord. 

“Did you go church this mornin’?” Blake asked him now. 

“Uh, no,” Will stuttered, drawn too suddenly from his thoughts. 

“Well, maybe we should pray now,” Blake suggested, smiling as if it were a joke, “Repent for our sins, an’ all that.” 

Will doubted Blake had ever sinned in his life. If he had, it had almost certainly been without knowing. 

“What, just say a prayer here, in the garden?” 

“Yeah, like in primary school, y’know? Sit up,” Blake tugged at Will’s arm until they were sat facing each other, both cross legged. “Right, put your hands together,” he pressed his own palms flat against each other, and waited for Will to do the same. “Now close your eyes,” his eyelids fluttered shut. 

Will kept his eyes open.

“Lord,” Blake began, “Give us now our daily bread an’ all that.” 

Will couldn’t help but snort. 

“Please bless my mum, and my brother, and Myrtle, and keep ‘em safe,” Blake continued, “Keep Scho’s family safe too,” at this he cracked one eye open to look at Will, and huffed when he noticed that Will’s eyes were still open, “ _ Close ‘em, _ Scho!”

Laughing, Will did as he was told, although only for a few moments, opening his eyes again when he was certain Blake’s were shut. 

“Please help Scho, for he is such a knob, who won’t do as he’s told-” 

“You can’t say that to  _ God! _ ” Will hissed, unable to stop grinning. 

“Why not?” Blake looked at him, “He knows it’s true.”

With a gasp and a giggle, Will swiped at Blake’s head, lightly catching him on the ear, “Cheeky bastard.” 

“Oi, keep yer hands together,” Blake chided as he closed his eyes again, “We’re  _ prayin _ ’. Right, where was I?” 

“You were just asking God to forgive you for being a prick,” Will said, ducking as Blake reached out to smack him in return. 

“You’ve got your eyes open!” Blake shook his head in disbelief, “Right.” He placed a hand over Will’s eyes, to ensure he couldn’t see. 

“Hey,” Will laughed, “Now  _ you’ve _ got your hands apart.” 

“Yeah, well, we wouldn’t ‘ave that problem if you could just do as yer told,” Blake teased. 

Reaching out blind, Will found Blake’s other hand, the one with his rings, and pressed it between his own two palms, a little like a sandwich. He heard Blake laughing gently, muttering something about him being soft in the head. 

“Get on with it then,” Will said, fluttering his eyelashes against Blake’s fingers. 

“ _ Stop  _ that, it tickles,” Blake lightly pushed his head, “Okay, so, Lord, please bless our crops an’ that. Uhh, stop all this war nonsense, y’know in Vietnam, and this business with Russia, I’m sick of it. And God,” he took a deep breath, “Say hi to Dad for us, if you see ‘im. Amen.” 

“Amen,” Will echoed quietly as Blake withdrew his hand. 

“Well?” Blake looked at him expectantly, “Better than church, ain’t it?” 

“Yeah, I suppose.” 

Blake’s smile was triumphant, as if this were some kind of debate. “We’ll have to do it more often then. S’more fun with someone else.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: the wisteria flower is symbolic of love, and of long life :)
> 
> see you again soon!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and another one
> 
> i just wanna say thank u for all the lovely comments ive been receiving! it's that kind of encouragement that makes me want to carry on this story (although i dont think tom and will would let me abandon them anyway!) so thank you thank you thank you
> 
> i also meant to post it with the previous chapter but im doing a playlist to go with this fic, it's all 60s songs, most of them were out pre summer of 68, but some weren't
> 
> [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4bISudk4ReIR90yaPfq091?si=Jv-89cEgTz2kyRh1poz8hw) it is if u wanna check it out (https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4bISudk4ReIR90yaPfq091?si=Jv-89cEgTz2kyRh1poz8hw) 
> 
> hope you enjoy the chapter!

Will didn't like to think of himself as a creature of habit. What he wanted was to be unpredictable, making snap decisions, keeping everyone, including himself, at the mercy of a whim. In a word, he wanted to be unknowable, to the point of barely recognising his own reflection. 

But the fact was, habit was so comfortable, and so easy to slip into. It was often that he fell into a pattern without noticing, and it was only when he was deeply embedded in it that he would realise.

It was like this that he stumbled into the habit of calling Blake most evenings. 

It started on that Sunday, after their first prayer together. As Blake was leaving, Will had mentioned his call with Mrs Blake, and how she had promised to make Blake phone him back. When he pointed out that he didn't think Blake had Mabel's phone number, Blake had laughed and said that was probably a good thing, or he'd be calling all the time. (At this, Will's stomach flipped, and he tried not to feel pleased.) Before disappearing down the road, Blake had made Will promise to call that evening, threatening to show up at the door again if he didn't. 

Will called after he and Mabel had eaten their tea, hoping that the Blakes were running to a similar timetable. Blake picked up on the first ring. Will smiled at the mental image of Blake waiting impatiently by the phone. 

"About time!" Blake had joked, before launching into a retelling of what strange thing Myrtle had done on the walk home. 

Will laughed along, smiling until his face ached at the mental image of Myrtle trying to drag Blake through a hedge after a squirrel - or was it a rat? What was the difference between them anyway? Whichever it was, it had caught Myrtle’s eye, and sent Blake hurtling face-first towards a cluster of sharp twigs and leaves. Apparently, Blake was now sporting a huge scratch across his right cheek, and stung like hell. 

“And what about you?” he’d asked when he finished the story, “Done anythin’ excitin’ since I left?” 

Will thought for a moment. “I spilled orange juice on my shirt,” he said at last, drawing a laugh from Blake. 

“Silly Scho,” he’d said, and Will could hear the smile in his voice. 

Soon after, they’d said goodnight, Will memorizing the cadence of Blake’s voice when he said, “Sleep well,” and Will was left sat next to the phone, unable to stop grinning. 

“You finished on the phone?” Mabel’s head appeared in the doorway. He’d banished her from the living room while he’d made the call, but she was apparently eager to resume her sewing in front of the television. 

“Yes,” he said, his voice coming out as more of a contented sigh, unable to hide the fact it felt like sunshine was blooming under his breastbone. 

“My, my, someone’s happy,” Mabel smiled as she sat down, “I’m glad you’re liking it here, Will. I was worried you’d hate it.” 

“I could never hate it,” he assured her, although it was a lie; he’d fully expected to despise every moment he spent in Mabel’s village. In fact, he probably would, if it weren’t for meeting Blake on that rainy day. Still, he had only been there a week. There was plenty of time for things to change. 

When he went to bed that night, the fuzzy warmth in his stomach twisted to a cold anxiety. What he was feeling for Blake, what he’d felt in the garden, was dangerous. He didn’t figure it was wrong, so much as, different. For it to be wrong, it would have to have been a choice, wouldn’t it? The fact was that he’d had no part in his attraction to Tom Blake. It was out of his hands, a knee-jerk reaction really. He didn’t decide to lose himself in the melody of Blake’s laugh. And he couldn’t help that Blake made him feel like he’d shot stars into his veins. He couldn’t help that Blake made him feel wanted in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. Not that he blamed Blake, of course. How was Blake to know what Will was? 

The real danger of it all, the part that Will hated, was the urge to act upon his desires. The act was the real sin, right? Making the choice to follow through with those feelings, the ones he wasn’t really supposed to have. But it wasn’t like he hadn’t been with another man before. Will knew by now that he was in God’s bad books, that no amount of prayers with Blake would wash away the crime that already stained his hands.

The real danger of it was the thought of Blake finding out. The mildest outcome he could hope for was the end of their newfound, easy friendship. He chose not to think what could happen instead. 

The safe option would be to cut off all contact with Blake now, to create a safe distance between them, so he couldn’t risk it all ending so messily. But he thought of Blake’s laugh, the way he told stories, how he shared his cigarettes, and how Joe had called him a lost puppy. He thought of the way Blake’s hair curled on his forehead, and how his hands had felt so small under Will’s own. He thought of Blake asking God to say hello to his father. The fact was that he didn’t want to let Blake go so easily.

The solution, he told himself as he went to sleep, was to be careful. He could be careful. He was good at careful. 

*

Almost every evening, after he and Mabel had eaten dinner, Will would call Blake, and Blake would pick up with an “About time!” as if he’d been waiting all day. Blake would tell a story or two, and Will would laugh until his ribs ached. They’d say goodnight, and Blake would say “Sweet dreams,” in the exact same way each time. 

Mabel would come into the living room shortly after they hung up, and she would smile at Will in a way that he couldn’t unpick. 

Before he went to sleep, Will would swear, first to himself, and then to God, that he would be careful. Most nights, he even believed it. 

Out of all the habits he’d ever formed, Will thought this was his favourite. This one felt like home. 

*

“Why am I doing this again?” Will panted, trying to brush away the soil that was nestling into the lines of his hands. 

It was Thursday and they were in the Blakes’ allotment, crouching between rows of potatoes. 

“Because,” Blake said, standing up, “I asked you to.” 

“Right, yes. Of course Lord Blake,” Will raised a hand to his forehead in mock salute. 

“Oh shut it,” Blake grinned, “Now you’ve got dirt on yer ‘ead. ‘ere.” 

He reached up with his hand, apparently forgetting that he too was covered in earth, and rubbed at the spot on Will’s head. 

“Oh fuck,” he laughed, “I’ve made it worse!” 

“Fuck’s sakes!” Will sighed. He darted his own hand out to leave a streak of mud across Blake’s cheek. 

“Oi!” 

“Now we’re even!” he held his hands up in surrender as Blake began to advance on him. 

“Whatever,” Blake stopped and smirked, “Let’s just get these bloody potatoes out, shall we?” 

He knelt back down in the soil and started scraping at the earth around the base of a particularly leafy shoot. Will crouched next to him, watching as he dug. 

“Wouldn’t this be easier with a spade?” he asked. 

Blake grunted. “Yeah, but I can’t be arsed to get one out the shed. It’s a _nightmare_ in there.”

“But you _can_ be arsed to dig around with your bare hands?” 

“Just shut up and dig, Scho.” 

Will did as he was told, attacking the same area of ground as Blake. The dirt caking itself under his fingernails was an unfamiliar sensation, something he hadn’t felt since he was a kid, spending all his time outside, and having his mother roughly scrub the mud away again before dinner. His parents weren’t particularly big fans of gardening. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling, now, but as he plunged his hands further and further into the soil, he felt as if he were reaching into the life of someone else. 

On a few occasions, Blake’s fingers would tangle with his, or his fingers would tangle with Blake’s, and Blake would chuckle lightly. Will would attempt a laugh, and untangle them as quickly as he could, before throwing small amounts of soil in Blake’s direction. 

“Bastard,” Blake had elbowed him after the third time, “Mum’ll be so pissed!” 

“Tell her I’ll wash it out then,” Will joked. 

“Oh you _will_ be washin’ it out Scho. I’ll get you the scrubbin’ brush, and- Wait! Got one!” Blake sat back triumphantly, holding a singular potato. “C’mon, the rest won’t be too far away.” 

Between them, they uncovered five more potatoes, each one small, round, and dusted with soil. 

“Now these,” Blake held one up between him and Will, “These are Charlottes.” 

“Who’s Charlotte?” Will asked, confused. 

“No, idiot. That’s what the taters are called,” Blake laughed, “There’s different kinds, ain’t there?” 

“Oh, I knew that,” Will said. He was lying. 

“Weird how they’re called people names, ain't it?” Blake was studying the potato in his hand, as if he were looking for some discernible feature that would mark it as a Charlotte, as opposed to a Sally, or a Linda. 

“I dated a girl called Charlotte,” Will mused, and immediately wished he hadn’t. 

“Oh yeah?” Blake raised an eyebrow, “Pretty?” He was smiling, but there was something off about his tone. 

“Well she didn’t look like a potato,” Will tried to joke, to ease whatever tension was seeping into Blake’s voice. 

"Hm," Blake hummed, eyes trained on Will. 

There was quiet for a few moments, before he asked, “Did you nail her?” A boyish question, laced with a hint of… _something_.

“Uh, no,” Will frowned, “We barely… We were only seeing each other for a few weeks. She wasn’t that interested.” 

And I wasn’t interested at all, Will thought. Charlotte had been a girl he’d met at a party, one night he barely remembered. One of Will’s friends tried to set them up, explaining that Will was too shy to make a move himself. They’d gone to the cinema together the next day, and she was nice enough. But she was ultimately unimpressed with Will’s reserved nature, and WIll was generally unimpressed by the fact that she was, well, a girl. If he’d tried harder, he was sure they could have got on fine, and for the first few weeks after they’d called it quits, he thought about the children they could’ve had. 

“Right,” Blake was looking at the potatoes now, his voice stiff, “So've you got a bird? Back ‘ome?” 

It was jealousy, Will realised. Blake was jealous. He wondered if Blake had ever had a girlfriend, if the opportunity had even come up in such a small village. Will bit his lip. In the same way that he’d asked Will about pot, Blake was trying to learn about experiences he’d never had - and Will was seemingly the perfect vessel. The only difference between girls and weed, was that Blake had never seen weed, making it some fantasy, out of reach thing. Girls were definitely in his reach. He just hadn’t managed to snag one yet. 

“No,” he said quietly, “I haven’t had a girlfriend for a long time.” 

Oddly enough, this answer seemed to satisfy Blake. He nodded, and although his lips were still tight, the set of his shoulders relaxed. 

“Here,” he handed the potatoes to Will, “Go pop these in that bucket by the back door. I’ll get started on the next lot.” 

Balancing them carefully in his hands, Will carried the potatoes over to the metal bucket that was sitting next to the back door of Blake’s house. He placed them in gently, one by one, as if they would bruise. Whether potatoes bruised or not, Will wasn’t sure, but he didn’t want to be the one to ruin them if they could. 

When he returned, Blake was smiling properly again. He reached out a finger and drew a slow muddy line down Will’s nose, initiating another battle of soil that had no real winner. Any trace of tension had vanished from his body. It was as if the conversation about Charlotte had never happened.

*

On Friday, they tackled the pub again. They caught the bus at quarter to six, promising Mrs Blake that they'd have something to eat when they got there. When they arrived, they found it starting to fill, several groups clustered around different tables. 

At the bar, Will recognised the girl from the week before, Lauri, and gave her a small wave. She gave him a shy wave in return. 

"Makin' a move on her this time?" Blake asked, right next to his ear. 

"Shut up," Will hissed as they approached the bar. 

"Alright love?" Blake said loudly, "Two brews, same as last time, cheers," and he placed a handful of change on the bar. 

"Of course," she nodded, and busied herself with the glasses. 

Will studied Blake for a moment, noting the crease between his eyebrows, the hard set of his shoulders. And he had an idea. 

"Y'know," he whispered, ignoring Blake's shudder at their sudden proximity, "If _you_ want to make a move, you should." 

At this, Blake stared at him as if he were insane. 

"On the girl," he added, in case his wording hadn't been clear. 

"Are you off your nut?" Blake asked him with a scoff. 

"Here you are," Lauri returned with their drinks, "Enjoy." 

Blake picked up his beer without a word, heading straight for the table they'd occupied the week before. 

"Thanks," Will smiled briefly, taking his beer and following Blake. 

"Why not her?" he asked, sitting down opposite Blake, "She seems nice." 

"Look Scho, you ask her if you're interested. But I'm not," Blake said bluntly. 

"She not your type?" Will joked, "You prefer blondes?" 

Blake snorted, one shoulder dropping as he relaxed a little, "No, s'not that. She's just…" he searched for the word, "French." 

_"French?"_ Will spluttered a laugh, trying to hide it behind his hand, "Never had you down as prejudiced, Blake." 

"I'm not," Blake was grinning now, "Just worried about the language barrier. 'm bad enough at talkin' to English girls." 

"You seem fine at talking to me," Will tilted his head. 

"Yeah, well. Much prefer speakin' to blokes." 

With a quick nod, Will swallowed down the stupid hope that dared to tickle his throat. There was no double meaning to Blake's words, he was certain. And being careful meant not looking for secret messages, didn't it? He mentally added it to his list of 'careful criteria', alongside limiting physical contact, and avoiding prolonged eye contact. 

Still, he watched as Blake retrieved his cigarettes and, in one fluid movement, dropped one onto the table for Will, and placed a second between his lips. He watched Blake elegantly click his lighter, so it ignited first try, and take the flame to his fag. He watched Blake inhale deeply, cheeks hollowing as he sucked in the smoke. Blake caught his eye. 

Will dropped his gaze. 

"How're you findin' out here then?" Blake asked, before taking a long sip of his drink, "The arse-end of nowhere. Better than home?" 

Drumming his fingers on the table, Will considered the question. He thought about the summer as he would have spent it at home: quiet days of his parents' quiet disapproval, and messy nights with people he half knew. Now he compared it with the past two weeks, and the endless stretch of summer into the future. Here, Mabel asked of him the most simple things, mostly allowing him to do as he pleased. Here, he had Tom Blake. Here, he felt like he could breathe. 

"Yeah, it's better," he nodded, picking up his pint glass. 

"You're welcome," Blake grinned. 

"Who said it had anything to do with you?" Will teased, as if they both didn't already know that Blake was his main source of joy. 

"Well, if that's 'ow it is, I'll be off," Blake made to leave, laughing when Will grabbed his wrist. 

"Just sit down," Will rolled his eyes, "Can you pass me your lighter?" 

Blake slid the lighter over the table, watching Will light his cigarette with a thoughtful look in his eye. He flicked the ash from his own fag into the ashtray on the table, before saying, "Y'know, you've never said why you're up 'ere."

Will felt himself stiffen involuntarily. No, he hadn't mentioned to Blake why he was staying with Mabel, nor very much else about himself. It wasn't like it was particularly shameful, nor very scandalous. Will had simply chosen not to mention it, and up until now, Blake hadn't asked. 

"You don't have to, if you don't want," Blake added quickly, noticing the slight change in Will's demeanour. 

"No, it's fine," Will shrugged, trying to loosen the tension that had built up in his shoulders, "My sister's having another baby. That's all."

"Oh, right," Blake said slowly, although the answer had clearly confused him. 

Will supposed, if he were someone else, he'd be confused too. 

"She's moved back home, just for a bit. There's not enough room for me," he explained, although the more he thought about it, the less sense it really made. 

"Ohh, right," Blake repeated, with more conviction this time, "Well, that'll be nice when you get back, won't it? Another little baby?" 

_When you get back._

It was an odd thing to realise, but Will hadn't given much thought to going home. He knew it would happen at some point, but it seemed like such a distant, intangible thing, blocked out by the rolling weeks of summer heat. To hear Blake say it out loud reminded him so suddenly that he would be going home eventually - and that when he did, he would probably never see Blake again. 

"Uh, yeah, I s'pose so," he answered, now feeling like he was sitting on the opposite side of the room to Blake. 

"So you're Uncle Scho?" Blake grinned around his cigarette, apparently unaware of Will's sudden realisation. 

Will supposed his departure had always been apparent to Blake, from the moment they'd met. Blake had always known that Will wasn't staying, but Will's tunnel vision had blocked out the fact that he would certainly be leaving, whether he wanted to or not. 

"Yeah," he tapped his cigarette against the ashtray, "I'm Uncle Will." 

"Wow," Blake leaned back in his chair, "Can't imagine bein' an uncle."

Now Will thought of Susie, her curly hair and infectious laugh. Whenever he visited Eliza, Susie would cling to his legs, show him her teddy bears, gaze up at him as if he held the answer to everything. 

"It's cool," he told Blake, "Susie's funny. Makes me laugh." 

"Yeah?" Blake took another sip of his drink, "Maybe one day I'll meet her." 

At that, Will huffed a half laugh, and tried not to think about the impossibility of Blake's idea, nor, indeed the optimistic spread of summer into eternity that it implied.

*

After three and a half pints, and no dinner, Blake was drunk. Will, having stopped after his second drink, was decidedly more sober, and was taking it upon himself to get Blake home safely. 

He'd paid for the bus, and let a floppy Blake rest a head on his shoulder as the vehicle twisted through the knotty lanes. He'd tried to steady his breathing when Blake overbalanced on a particular sharp corner and had put a hand on Will's thigh to steady himself - and he had to focus on the dark shadows of the trees outside, the hum of the engine, anything, when Blake's hand remained there, a constant warm presence in a place Will hadn't been touched for a while.

Now they were half running down the lanes to Blake's house, Blake singing out of tune, and Will laughing as he stopped Blake from tripping over his feet. 

"S'stupid," Blake said suddenly, slowing down and looking at Will. 

"What is?" 

Blake opened his mouth, about to speak, before snorting and shaking his head. "Nah, forget it." He started jogging again, arms spread wide as if he were trying to hold the whole world at once. 

Curious, Will hurried after him. "Well now I want to know!" 

At this, Blake stopped and sighed, dropping his arms and shoving his hands in his pockets. His shoulders hunched around his ears as if he were cold, but there was no chill on the evening breeze. He nudged at a stone on the road with his foot, kicking it as Will came to a halt next to him. 

"S'just," he muttered, "'ve never 'ad a mate like you before." 

Will's heart fluttered up to beat quickly in his throat. "Yeah?" he murmured. 

"Yeah, see…" Blake seemed to grapple with the right words, "No one's ever… stuck around, y'know? S'like, no one _wan'ed_ to," he sniffed, "Joe says it's 'cause I talk too much. S'probably right. " 

Will said nothing, just looking at Blake - and realising that his life had been much the same. 

"But you ain't like that," Blake continued, meeting Will's eye now. Even in the dark, his gaze was piercing and blue. 

Will shivered. 

"An- an' I know you ain't stayin' neither," Blake stammered, "But- fuck, it feels like you want to. Yeah? Like," he tilted his head back and looked up at the sky. (Will stared at the pale white skin of his throat.) "Like you _wanna_ be m'mate." 

Will swallowed.

Blake looked at him again, teeth worrying his lip for a few moments, before saying, "Look, I just- I'm tryna say, thanks for lettin' me hang 'round wiv ya." 

They started walking again, Will shoving his own hands into his pockets as a precaution. 

"I mean, it's not like you gave me much choice," he teased, smiling so Blake would know that he didn't mind. 

"Piss off," Blake lightly shoved him with his shoulder. 

Will nudged back, only gently, but it was still enough to almost knock an intoxicated Blake entirely off course. For a few moments, they were quiet, Blake's eyes on the road ahead, and Will stealing glances at him as he tried to figure out something - anything - to say. 

The problem was that Will wasn't good with words. He could read a dictionary from front to back, could feel something as deep and wide as the ocean, but he still couldn't articulate his feelings in a way that did them justice. When he spoke, his words seemed shallow in comparison; and by this, of course, he meant that he was drowning in whatever he was feeling for Tom Blake, but could barely offer him a puddle in return. 

"I _do_ wanna be your mate," he said at last, quiet and earnest, "Thank you for not leaving me alone."

And Blake said nothing. He just looked at Will and smiled softly. 

*

After walking Blake to the door, Will turned to leave. 

"Oi, where're you goin'?" Blake called after him. 

"Ho-" he began, before frowning, "Mabel's." 

"Ain't you s'posed to gimme a goodnight kiss?" Blake joked, ignoring the way Will stiffened, "C'mon get in 'ere, you must be starvin'. I know I am." 

Blake wandered into the house, leaving the door wide open. Will stood still for a few moments, deliberating. Mabel wouldn't worry too much, would she? He'd been gone for most of the day, having left for Blake's midafternoon. No, Mabel seemed mostly indifferent to whatever Will did. She wouldn't worry, as long as he was back before she went to bed. 

With a sigh, he relented, following Blake inside. He shut the door quietly behind him. After slipping off his shoes, he found Blake in the kitchen, eating a slice of bread. 

"'ave some," he instructed through a mouthful, not noticing the crumbs that tumbled out of his mouth. 

Will leaned against the counter next to him and stole the slice that Blake had been holding, taking a bite out of it himself. 

"Not _mine,_ you bastard!" Blake yelped, smacking Will's arm. 

Chuckling, Will held out the slice for Blake to take back, only to lift it out of his reach at the last second. 

"Fuck's sakes," Blake laughed in spite of himself, trying to pull Will's arm down, "Fuckin' tall bastard." 

"I'm not tall," Will said, lowering his arm and offering over the bread, "You're just short." 

Instead of taking the slice back, Blake ripped off a small section while Will was holding it. "Piss off," he muttered with a grin. 

They'd demolished roughly half a loaf between them when Mrs Blake entered the kitchen with an empty tea cup. She observed the half-eaten loaf, the crumbs on the floor, the red of their cheeks, and sighed, although she was smiling as she did so. 

"You'd better get me some more bread tomorrow, Tommy," she said, rinsing out her cup in the sink. 

"I will!" 

"Good," she paused, looking at Will now, "You stayin' the night, Will? M'sure there's room for you in Tom's room." 

"Um, actually," Will croaked, before clearing his throat, "I'd better get going. My aunt'll be wondering where I am." 

"No, stay," Blake pouted, taking a hold of Will's elbow. In that moment, he reminded Will a little of a toddler. 

"Let 'im go, Tommy," Mrs Blake walked over and ran a hand over her son's hair, "You'd better get back safely," she instructed Will, "No funny business." 

"I will, I promise," Will nodded. 

"Call when you get there," Blake insisted, and although Will didn't reply, he gave Blake a look that he hoped conveyed his intention to. 

The journey back was colder, with Will pressing his arms to his sides to keep warm. As he walked, he thought again of what Blake had told him earlier, his admittance of never having a friend like Will. They were the same, in that respect; Will had never had a friend like Blake, someone he truly wanted to be around. While Blake believed his friendships hadn't lasted because he spoke too much, Will knew his had failed because he didn't talk enough. When he couldn't, or wouldn't, answer a question to a detailed enough degree, most people had dropped him, thinking him boring or stupid. It surprised him that Blake hadn't thought the same, although he was thankful for it. 

He couldn't really believe that Blake - magnetic, sunshine, beauty - had had difficulty making friends, but he supposed it was another way in which they had been drawn together. And, in a bitter way, he was almost glad of it. 

He knocked on Mabel's door twice, and was surprised when she answered almost straight away, throwing her arms around him in a hug. 

"Will," she whispered, "I was worried you weren't coming back." 

"I- I'm sorry auntie," he hesitantly placed a hand on her back, "I was with Blake." 

At this she hummed a laugh, releasing him from her embrace, and holding him at arms length. Studying him. There was something unfamiliar in her eye, a tightness to her smile, that made Will feel as if he were an old photograph, rather than a person who was there, now. She said, "I thought you were." 

She turned and headed back into the living room, where Will assumed she had been before. 

"Your mother called again," she added over her shoulder as Will shut the door. 

"Oh," he sighed.

"I told her to call back tomorrow." 

"Oh, thanks." 

He slid off his shoes, filled a glass of water in the kitchen, and joined his aunt in the living room. 

"Oh, I need to call Blake," he remembered, moving over to the phone. When Mabel raised a questioning eyebrow, he added, "He told me to call when I got back." 

"Ah," she smiled crookedly, as if holding back a laugh, "Of course he did." 

Will dialled the number, and listened to the phone ring once, twice, three times. He was surprised Blake hadn't been waiting by the receiver, ready to pick up as soon as Will called. 

"Will?" It was not Blake, but his mother who spoke. 

"Uh, yes, is Tom there?" 

She chuckled, "He's passed out, poor thing. Got halfway through tellin' me how he had to stay awake until you called, and then bam, out like a light." 

"Oh," Will couldn't help laughing too, imagining Blake fighting to keep his eyes open, but drifting off mid-sentence, "Well if he wakes up, could you let him know I called?" 

"Of course my love," she told him, "Maybe next time, don't let him drink so much." 

"Yeah, maybe," Will agreed. 

There was a pause for a second, and Will heard Mrs Blake inhale deeply. "Will?" her voice was softer now, fond, "Thanks for gettin' him home safe."

"It's no problem Mrs Blake." 

"Night Will." 

"Goodnight Mrs Blake."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the alternate title for this fic is "im in love with tom blake, and this is why u should be too!"
> 
> anyways i hope you liked this chapter 
> 
> have a lovely day <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!
> 
> this chapter absolutely got away from me, deviating almost entirely from the plan i set out for it. however, it's also one ive enjoyed writing the most, so i hope you like it!

"Let's go record shoppin' tomorrow," Blake suggested over the phone. 

Will hummed at this, trying to remember the last time he'd been able to go to a record store, much less with anyone he actually liked. He folded and unfolded the corner of the top page of Mabel's notepad as Blake continued. 

"I haven't been for ages, right? Been goin' proper mental. Like, don't get me wrong, I like the music I've got, yeah, but I need somethin' new. Y'get me?" 

"Yeah, I get you." Will was itching to listen to a new album, some fresh vinyl. All he had was the songs on the radio, and Mabel's small collection, which wasn't necessarily bad, but he so desperately wanted a stretched out sound. Preferably something he hadn't heard before. 

"Cool," Blake was grinning, Will could hear it in his voice, "So, meet tomorrow? By the church, half eleven?" 

"Yeah, that sounds good," Will nodded, even though Blake couldn't see him. 

"Right, goodnight then," Blake said, but he didn't hang up.

Will waited for him to finish off with the usual, "Sweet dreams," but he said nothing. He just breathed, loud enough for Will to hear through the phone. 

"Alright, Blake?" Will asked softly, worry working its way under his fingernails. 

Blake exhaled loudly, and Will could've almost sworn he felt his breath on his cheek. 

"Yeah, I'm alright Scho. Sweet dreams." 

"Sleep well," Will said, and he heard the click of the call ending. He held the receiver to his ear a few moments longer, still feeling as though Blake were breathing on the other side. 

*

"You're late," Blake joked, as Will jogged over to the bus stop. 

_"Two minutes_ isn't late," Will insisted, although he knew his mother would disagree. 

"Could be, if you're waitin' for a bus. Which we are." 

"Oh, shh." 

Will patted his hands over his pockets, checking again that he had everything: wallet, Mabel's spare key, the paper with Blake's number, the plate fragment. He thought back over his leaving again, ensuring that he'd remembered to put the scrap of paper with Mabel's number on it in his wallet, had left a note on the kitchen table in case his aunt forgot where he'd gone, had _definitely_ locked the front door behind him. Then he turned to Blake, who was watching him with a half smile. Over his arm, Blake was carrying a raincoat. 

"That's what I forgot!" Will muttered, realising he himself was totally unprepared for rain. 

"What?" 

Will gestured half heartedly at the raincoat. 

"Oh, that," Blake shrugged, "You'll be alright, s'not forecast anyway."

With a sidelong glance, Will said, "So why've _you_ got a coat?" 

Blake shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clearly embarrassed. "Mum," was all he answered, and Will grinned.

The bus spluttered into view, more full than Will had ever seen it. They paid their fare, before making their way to the rear of the bus, and squishing up next to each other on the back bench. Blake fished his cigarettes out of his pocket and lit up, attracting disapproving looks from several women. They'd probably given up smoking after reading a magazine article or two about the negative effects, but Will reckoned they still wanted a puff of Blake's. 

"Why's it so busy?" he asked, as Blake handed him the cigarette. They'd given up smoking individually, now almost exclusively sharing fags; Blake claimed it saved money. Will just liked the feeling of his lips occupying a space where Blake's own had also been. 

"Market day," Blake explained, watching Will inhale smoke, exhale smoke, hand back the cigarette. "Every Wednesday in town." He paused to take a drag. "Might have ta help Mum with our stall next week."

"Your stall?" Will focused on the burning end of the fag, "What d'you sell?" 

"Taters, cherries, carrots… Anythin' really. Whatever we can." 

The bus came to a stop in the next village, and Will could see the pub out the window. Two more people boarded the bus, and no one got off. 

Passing the cigarette over again, Blake said, "We're pickin' mosta the cherries this weekend, me an' Joe," he elbowed Will playfully in the ribs, "You should come help. Make yourself useful." 

Will snorted. "I don't know the first thing about picking cherries." 

"Well, you can just sit and look pretty then." 

Will snorted again, before blowing a cloud of smoke into Blake's face. He was slowly getting used to Blake's little comments, his joking flirtation. There was nothing behind it, he'd discovered, no mockery or nastiness. That was just the way Blake was. And Will didn't mind. He just wished it were easier to quieten the jolts of sickening hope that ran through him when Blake called him pretty. 

When the bus stopped in the town centre, Will and Blake were the last ones off the bus. Will found himself in a small square, filled with market stalls of varying sizes under the cover of brightly striped gazebo tenting. Most displayed large boxes of fruit and vegetables, each vying for customers, hoping the customer would favour them over the competition. Others exhibited fabrics and wools, handmade garments and quilted blankets. Briefly, Will thought of his aunt, and the clothes she fixed to make small amounts of money. He wondered if she'd ever considered a stall at the market. 

Finally tearing his eyes away from the colourful commercial display, Will realised that Blake had been watching him, an amused smile playing over his face. 

"What?" Will suddenly felt self-conscious. 

"You ain't got anythin' like this in the city then?" Blake asked. 

"I've seen markets before, Blake," Will felt sour, a little stupid. 

"I'm not sayin' you haven't!" Blake raised his hands in surrender, "You just got this look on yer face. Amazed, like."

"So?" 

"So nothin'!" Blake laughed, "I was only sayin'!" 

"Hm." 

Will felt suddenly like a small child, laughed at for simply being young. It didn't help that Blake was younger than him, yet seemed so much older, more experienced than him in the environment they found themselves in. He supposed if they were in a territory Will knew it would be the same, only with their roles reversed. But he refused to allow this thought to comfort him, instead hinging his esteem on the idea that he was supposed to be more worldly, better versed in life - and here, he was not. 

"Oh, cheer up you grumpy sod," Blake nudged him with his shoulder, "C'mon, let's go look at some records." And he started weaving his way through the stalls, both hands in his trouser pockets, coat slung over his shoulder. 

Not wanting to be left behind, Will followed. Blake led him off the square, down a quiet street, then another, and a third, before stopping at a small storefront. It was dated, a little dirty, but Blake was grinning like it was the best place on earth. 

"Here we are," he announced, "Our saving grace." 

He gestured for Will to enter first, allowing him to push open the deep green door. A bell jingled to announce their arrival. Looking around, Will found it was just as dirty on the inside, with dust decorating almost every surface. It was cramped too, boxes of vinyl stacked on top of each other to form precarious towers. Will had never seen a shop like it. He was used to the expansive HMV back home, LPs sorted neatly by artist and name. Even the new records here seemed second hand, the sleeves crumpling in corners, and artwork peeling. 

"Gorgeous, ain't it?" Blake said, slapping a hand onto Will's back, before brushing past him into the shop. 

At first, Will hovered behind Blake, watching over his shoulder as he flicked through a box near the door. The Lovin' Spoonful, The Byrds, Manfred Mann… 

"Y'alright?" Blake raised an eyebrow at him, pausing his browsing. 

"Uh, yeah," Will scratched the back of his head, "Just don't know… what I'm looking for." 

"Oh, me neither," Blake turned back to his selection, "Just pick a box and see what takes yer fancy." 

Stiff, reluctant, Will shuffled over to a box and began skimming through a handful of singles. None of them were recent, and much less anything he thought he might like. He moved onto another box, finding it to be mostly the same. The only thing he thought was of any note was a Beatles' single from a few years ago - _Paperback Writer_ \- but he already had that back home.

"Found anythin' yet?" Blake asked, an LP tucked under his arm.

"No," Will tilted his head to try and read the record Blake was holding, "What's that? Beach… Boys?"

"Yeah," Blake held it out in front of him, as if he were proudly displaying a prize, _"Pet Sounds._ It's a couple years old, but I ain't got it yet."

"But the _Beach Boys?"_ Will quirked an eyebrow.

"Yeah, wha's wrong with 'em?" Blake held the record defensively to his chest now, as if it were a shield. 

"Well they're a bit… _American,_ aren't they?" Will wrinkled his nose. 

"So? Best stuff comes from America."

"The Beatles aren't American."

"Oh shut up."

They spent a while longer, flipping through the various boxes, holding up records for each other's judgment, and giggling as their choices grew more and more bizarre. 

_"God_ , who in their right mind would _choose_ the name-" they both spluttered with laughter again, as Blake struggled to speak, "Eng- _Engelbert Humperdinck?"_

They both doubled over, snickering as quietly as they could, Will nearly dropping the offending LP onto the dusty shop floor. 

"Havin' fun lads?" a voice asked as they gasped to catch their breath. 

Will looked up to see a young man, perhaps a few years older than himself, leaning on the counter next to the till. He hadn't been there before, Will thought, noticing a door behind him that was slightly ajar. A cigarette dangled from between his fingers, and a bemused look arched his eyebrows. He was wearing a woollen hat, despite the summer heat. 

"Alright, Leslie?" Blake grinned, straightening up. 

The man - Leslie - placed his cigarette between his lips and rolled his shoulders back. He grunted as something in his back clicked. In a cloud of smoke, he muttered, "Oh, y'know. As alright as I can be, in this shit'ole." 

His accent was similar to Blake's, Will noted, but it had a certain lilt to it, as if he were supposed to be from somewhere else. Ireland, perhaps. 

"Oh, give over," Blake was saying now, approaching the till with that Beach Boys LP, "Could be worse. You could be stuck in the middle of nowhere, like us." He gestured to himself and Will. 

"Yeah, I was wonderin' about him," Leslie pointed his cigarette at Will before flicking ash onto the floor, "You've not brought 'im before. Who is he?" 

"This is Scho," Blake threw Will a grin over his shoulder, "He's stayin' with his aunt for the summer." 

"And you've taken him under yer wing? Poor sod," Leslie almost smiled. 

Will watched the pair talk, fascinated. They were familiar with each other, exchanging jokes and jibes, and, even though Leslie had appeared hostile, he seemed to actually like speaking to Blake. He wondered if Blake visited the shop that often to have formed a companionship with the owner - was Leslie the owner? - or if they had known each other in another capacity, outside the world of commerce. 

"Just that, is it?" Leslie was asking, holding his hand out for Blake's LP. 

"Yeah, I think so," Blake passed it to him, "Unless there's anythin' you wanted Scho?" 

"Uh, no, nothing for me," Will hoped Leslie wouldn't think him rude. 

"You sure?" Leslie raised an eyebrow, "You seem quite fond of that," he squinted at the LP in Will's hand, before snorting, "'umperdinck." 

Will realised he was still clutching Engelbert, as if he were a lifeline, and quickly shoved him into the nearest box. "No, nothing," he repeated, shoving his now empty hands into his pockets. 

"Alright, your loss," Leslie shrugged, turning back to the album he was holding. He studied it for a few moments, turning it this way and that, as if appraising it. "Beach Boys," he muttered, before looking up at Blake, "How much we reckon?" he asked, "Five pounds?" 

Blake scoffed, "You're 'avin' a laugh!" But he played along, "Six an' eight." 

Leslie hissed as if wounded, and took a drag from his smoke. "Three pounds." 

"Twelve shillings." 

"Two pounds." 

"Fifteen shillings, four pence." 

"One pound, that's my final offer." 

Blake pretended to muse on this for a moment, before offering, "How about twenty shillings?" 

Leslie barked a laugh, before holding out his free hand, cigarette between his lips. "Deal." 

They shook hands, and Blake fished one pound out of his pocket, placing it into Leslie's open palm. Leslie passed him the record, and turned to the till, punching at the buttons until the tray opened. 

"Pleasure doin' business with ya," Blake grinned, before swivelling on his heels and moving towards the door, "C'mon then Scho." 

Will found himself jerking forwards, legs a little stiff from standing so awkwardly frozen for so long. 

"Cheers Leslie," Blake called over the ringing of the bell as he opened the door. 

"Bye fellas," Leslie replied, sounding almost apathetic, although Will wasn't sure he believed it. 

"Nice to meet you," he said politely as he ducked out the door, and he could've sworn he heard Leslie laugh behind, surprised and completely genuine. 

*

They ate lunch at a pub Blake liked, ordering fish and chips, and washing it down with a pint of beer each. 

"Are you and Leslie mates then?" Will asked, halfway through his drink. 

Blake seemed to consider this for a moment, tapping a steady rhythm on his glass with his fingernail. "I s'pose," he took a swig, wiping his mouth on his arm before continuing, "But I don't really know 'im. Not like I do with you." 

It occurred to Will that Blake thought he was jealous, and was trying to reassure him. He was reminded of being a small child, of telling his best friend that he liked _him_ the best, of promising that, out of everyone he played with, _he_ was his favourite. A small chuckle made its way out of his mouth, and he gazed at Blake, seeing all the innocence of the world creased between his skin. 

"What's funny?" Blake frowned, although a smile played at the corner of his mouth, ready to laugh along with Will. 

"Nothing," Will shook his head and grinned down at the table. 

"No, Scho, tell me!" Under the table, Blake's foot kicked Will gently but firmly in the shin. 

"It's nothing, I swear!" Will giggled. 

"You're a _terrible_ liar," Blake mused, smiling. 

"I'm not lying!" Will lied. 

"Alright, whatever, I don't care," Blake shrugged, although he clearly did. 

Will watched him down the rest of his drink in one swift movement, before setting down his glass and letting out a satisfied noise. 

"Shall we head back then?" 

On the way to the bus stop, they wandered through the market in the square. Will glanced over crates of apples and carrots, dresses hanging from hooks, and embroidered handkerchiefs folded neatly. On one stall, he saw a set of children's pinafores, all different sizes and colours. He considered buying one for Susie, and perhaps a matching one for Eliza's new baby, but stopped himself when he remembered he probably couldn't afford it. Besides, he didn't know if Eliza was having a boy or a girl, and it'd be embarrassing for him to turn up with a dress for a little lad. 

Blake was looking around with wide, eagle eyes, checking the prices of different produce. In particular, he was looking for cherries, giving the competition a once over. 

"Those are overripe," he muttered to Will, pointing to one box as they passed. 

Will wouldn't have known the difference anyway. 

*

Later, they were in Blake's bedroom, Blake lying back on his mattress, while Will sat on the floor, back against the side of Blake's bed. While the room was tidier than it had been the first time Will had seen it, it was clear Blake had lapsed back into his habit of keeping his clothes everywhere. Will pretended not to notice the pair of underpants that lay on the floor an arm's length away from him. He didn't want to wonder whether they were clean or dirty. 

They were listening to some of Blake's records, Will insisting that they listen to at least _one_ Beatles album before diving into Blake's "horrific" taste. Blake had thrown a pillow at him for that comment, but had put Rubber Soul on anyway. 

"So if you don't like American music," Blake lit a new cigarette, "What music _do_ ya like?" 

"Y'know," Will shrugged, "The Stones, The Kinks, The Who. Good music." 

"Piss off," Blake laughed, sitting up, "What, so you think yer too good for a bit of Simon and Garfunkel?" 

Will raised his eyebrows with a smirk. "I _know_ I'm too good for a bit of Simon and Garfunkel." 

"Yer an arse," Blake said, but he was smiling, a glint of affection in his eye. 

Will looked away quickly, his throat drying under Blake's gaze. He swallowed, before asking, "Pass us the cig?" 

Blake reached forward, holding the cigarette in front of Will's face, but when Will tried to take it, he jerked his hand away. 

"Blake, give it." 

"No," Blake laughed, leaning on his elbow, "Open up." 

_"What?"_

"I _said_ open up," Blake held the cigarette in front of Will's mouth, watching intently, "C'mon." 

Tentatively, Will parted his lips, only slightly, but enough for Blake to carefully push the fag between them. Looking directly at Blake, Will inhaled, sucking in a huge cloud of smoke. Blake watched, his eyes darkened with something Will couldn't name. He leaned back slightly, easing the cigarette out of mouth, eyes still fixed on Blake's. Slowly, as if he were in a dream, or high, he pursed his lips and blew a gentle cloud of smoke over Blake's face. He heard Blake inhale deeply, as if trying to breathe in everything Will had just exhaled. It felt like they were surrounded by electricity, like his blood had been replaced by sparking plugs, like if they touched, they would surely catch fire. Blake exhaled again, and Will was sure he could see some of his own smoke spilling from Blake's lips. 

He didn't seem to realise that he was inching forward, or that Blake was doing the same; or, he realised it, but he didn't feel like he was the one doing it. He wasn't in control of his own body. He was magnetised. 

His heart pounded under his t-shirt. 

It was only when Blake's breath feathered over his nose, when the last notes of _Michelle_ played out, when the record player needle clicked to a stop, that he became fully aware of what he was doing. 

"I'dbetterturntherecordover," he stumbled out, sliding away from Blake and standing up. 

"Right," Blake sat up straight again, a weird crackle in his voice, "You do that." 

After flipping the record with hands that were shaking, Will sat back down, clutching his knees to his chest. He wouldn't, couldn't, look at Blake. And it seemed that Blake felt the same, face turned to the window, cigarette held tightly between finger and thumb. 

They sat in silence through one song, before Will couldn't stand it anymore. As John sang the opening lines of _Girl_ , he stood, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers. 

"I'd better get going," he said, suddenly feeling huge and decidedly out of place in Blake's bedroom, "I promised Mabel I'd help her with something." 

"Yeah?" Blake gave him a once over, knowing he was lying, "Well, I'll see yuh at the weekend?" 

"Yeah, sure," Will tugged at the bottom of his t-shirt, "I'll probably call you tonight," he said, even though he knew he wouldn't. 

"Alright, see ya," Blake turned back to the window, leaving Will to make his own way out. 

Will ran all the way back to Mabel’s. 

*

Will swept the kitchen once, twice, three times, before Mabel stopped him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. 

"Will," she said quietly, "Are you okay?" 

"Mhm," Will nodded, a little absent. 

"Then can you please stop sweeping my kitchen? I don't think anyone's used that broom in years, and I'm scared it'll break under all the sudden strain." 

With a sigh, Will let her pry the broom from his grip. She leaned it against the wall behind the kitchen door, before placing her hands on Will's shoulders. 

"Now, what's wrong?" 

"Nothing," Will frowned, "I'm fine." 

"Well then," she now moved her hands to lightly pat his cheeks, "Tell your face." 

He pulled out of her hold, shaking his head like she was crazy. 

"Look," she said, taking hold of his wrists now, "Whatever's eating you, you know you can tell me about it, right?" 

Will felt his frown deepen. He'd never had an adult encourage him to confide in them, much less a relative. Mabel's face was open and questioning, like she really wanted to know what was going on behind Will's forehead. It felt foreign, maternal in a way Will hadn't experienced before - certainly not with his own mother. 

And a part of him wanted to tell Mabel everything. To confess all of the things that he kept between himself and God, about boys, and Blake, and Blake, and Blake. All he wanted was to talk about Blake. 

But the words wouldn't form in his throat, and he knew it was for the best. There was no telling how Mabel would feel about… that. Just because she didn't go to church didn't mean she didn't hold the same moral values. He had visions of her shouting at him, throwing the plate that they had so carefully fixed, and, worst of all, telling his parents. Just the thought of his mother and father looking at him and _knowing_ was enough to turn his stomach. 

He forced a smile, "Well, when something's bugging me, I'll let you know." 

She narrowed one eye, tilting her chin and studying him comically. "Very sly… Okay," she smiled at him now, moving her grip from Will's wrists to his hands. She squeezed his fingers, "Well, you're still far too serious for my liking, so I think we should have a dance." 

"A dance?" 

"Yes," she began to walk backwards out of the kitchen, pulling Will along with her, "Just loosen up a bit, y'know?" They crossed the hall, entering the living room, "We used to have a boogie when you were younger, do you remember?" 

Will tried not to cringe at his aunt's use of the word "boogie", and cast his mind back. He remembered being small, barely taller than the seats in the living room, and holding hands with Mabel and his sister. They spun around in circles as one of Mabel's records played out into the room. He remembered falling onto the sofa, dizzy and laughing, as his father looked on disapprovingly over his newspaper. 

"Yes, I remember," he smiled. 

Mabel beamed at him, guiding him to the centre of the room, before dashing over to her record player. "I remembered you like the Beatles," she said, starting Please Please Me. 

Then she joined Will in the middle of the room and began to jump around to the start of _I Saw Her Standing There._ At first, Will just stood and laughed, as his aunt flailed around like a girl of his own age. 

"Come on, Will," she shouted when she noticed he wasn't dancing too. 

She grabbed a hold of his hands and started shaking his arms, until he was dancing along with her. They jumped and span until they were out of breath, which was much sooner for Mabel than Will. Eventually they both flopped onto the sofa and let the first side of the record play out. 

Will looked at his aunt, hair flying wild, eyes wrinkled at the edges with a grin, and wondered how he might have turned out if his mother was more like her: relaxed and fun, and interested in his life beyond finding things to scold him for. Then again, he supposed, it was not the job of a mother to know her child, but to worry them into the shape of a person. 

*

Despite the distractions his aunt provided him with, when Will went to bed, he couldn't keep his mind from straying back to the afternoon's events. Moonlight streamed through the thin curtains as he lay on top of his bedsheets, staring at the ceiling. He didn't want to close his eyes, in case the scene started to replay behind his eyelids. This worry didn't matter, the white of the ceiling providing enough of a backdrop for his worries to project themselves onto. 

He had been so close to Blake, so close to _kissing_ Blake. And he was certain that it had showed on his face, that Blake would've seen all of his intentions, all of his desires. Blake would've read him like a book, and that thought alone made his ribs tighten. 

When he remembered the way Blake had looked at him, eyes darkened, gaze heavier than usual, Will practically squirmed. If he didn't know better, he could almost convince himself that the shadow over Blake was that of lust. That Blake wanted him back, just as much. Even as he called himself delusional, he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise, and he shivered, despite the heat. 

God, he had _almost kissed Blake._ The thought pounded in his head, over and over, making him feel both sickeningly excited and sweetly afraid, each in equal parts. This was the opposite of careful. 

_I won't do it again,_ he thought, although whether he was promising himself or God, he wasn't sure. 

He risked losing Blake, he reminded himself as the mental image of kissing Blake sent a shiver up his spine. If he exposed who he was, what he was, then Blake was certain to abandon him. In fact, he was surprised Blake even wanted to see him again. 

"I won't do it again," he whispered aloud this time, as if speaking it would make it true. 

But even as he did so, he reached to his bedside and found that sheet of paper. He traced "Tom Blake" with his thumb, and when he eventually fell asleep, he held Blake's phone number over his traitorous, blaspheming heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a few quick notes:  
> \- the record shop is based on a real one i visited in nottingham - although the one i went to was even more of a mess!  
> \- it was really difficult for me to not write leslie in an irish accent, bc i cant think of andrew scott speaking in any other way. it also didn't help that i just finished reading "here are the young men" which is written entirely in an irish accent  
> \- the "paperback writer" single will picks up is rlly cool to me bc the song wasn't on any beatles album; it was only released as a single. i only know this bc my brother has the single.  
> \- when leslie asks for a pound and tom says 20 shillings, he's being funny bc there were 20 shillings to a pound
> 
> okay ill shut up before this note ends up longer than the chapter! hope you enjoyed! feel free to leave a comment, or shout at me on twitter or tumblr (both @mickydolenzs)
> 
> have a lovely day


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more!
> 
> tw for talking about past character death in this one
> 
> idk how many of you saw the bafta masterclass thingy with sam, krysty, and paula, but i watched it, and when they talked about how easy it was to write blake, i was filled with an urge to write another chapter as fast as i could - bc blake is so very easy to write
> 
> i hope you enjoy this one

Will called Blake on Thursday, and it was as if nothing had happened. Blake was his usual buoyant self, and didn't mention Will's sudden departure, nor the fact that he hadn't called the evening before. And indeed, as the hours wore on, Will found himself less convinced that the events in Blake's bedroom truly took place; by the time he awoke on Friday, the whole thing seemed more like a dream. Neither a good dream or a bad dream, Will reckoned, just a terribly betraying one. 

On Friday evening, he called Blake again, and they arranged for Will to come over the next day and help with the cherry picking. 

The prospect of seeing Blake again so soon set Will ablaze with a cocktail of nerves and excitement. He felt like a giggling schoolgirl as he lay awake that night, blushing in the dark at the thought of Blake's smile - the one it seemed he kept for Will. He abated these images with a whispered reminder, just the word "careful," as if he were tempering a wild animal. His attraction to Blake was an itch that under no circumstances could he scratch. And when he thought of it like that, it all seemed very simple. 

He arrived at the Blakes' around midday, with the sun hot and high in the sky. When he knocked on the door, it was Mrs Blake who answered, hurrying him inside with a smile, asking if he wanted a drink. He declined her offer, and she guided him through the house and out the back door. 

"The boys are down there," she pointed to a cluster of trees, a little way down the hill. She patted him on the arm. "Don't let them rope you into doin' too much. You're not gettin' paid!" With a laugh, she turned back towards the kitchen, where she had been scrubbing at the sink with a thick brush. 

"Thanks," Will said, before meandering down the hill towards the orchard. 

He heard Blake and Joe before he could see them. Blake was shouting something about birds - the feathered or the female kind, Will wasn't sure - and Joe was squawking with laughter. Will felt a mix of softness and envy, filled with joy at the Blakes' easy relationship, and twinging jealousy that he and Eliza were not as close. 

"Blake!" he called out as he approached. 

"Scho?" Blake appeared from behind a tree, face splitting into a grin when he saw Will, "You're 'ere!" 

Blake, Will tried not to notice, was wearing a shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and the top four buttons undone. Will didn't look at the smooth, pale skin of Blake's chest where it showed itself, nor did he wonder what it would feel like under his fingers. 

"Joe, look, Scho's 'ere," Blake tugged Will further into the trees, to where Joe was waiting. 

"Alright?" Joe held out his hand for Will to shake, something he seemed insistent on doing every time they met. 

"Alright?" Will nodded back, taking Joe's hand and trying not to wince as Joe gave it a firm, sharp shake. 

Joe, Will noticed, was wearing a shirt similar to his brother's, only completely unbuttoned, exposing softly defined muscles that seemed to ripple as he breathed. Will looked away. 

"Right, we're pickin' Lamberts," Blake told Will. He pointed at a bucket that was half full of dark red fruit. "We've started, but there's a lot of fuckin' cherries." 

Joe snickered at this, before picking up an empty bucket and disappearing further into the orchard. 

"Let's get to it then," Blake clapped his hands together, before reaching up into one of the trees and producing two perfect cherries. 

"Yeah…" Will walked over to a different tree. He found a cherry and wrapped his hand around it. "Do I just… pull it?" he asked Blake. 

With a chuckle, Blake walked over to stand behind him, close enough that Will could feel his breath on his neck. "Yeah, you just…" Blake slid his hand over the back of Will's, moving his fingers from the berry to the stalk, "Grip it by the knot, and then…" he guided Will's hand down in a short sharp movement. The cherry came away from the tree. "... Pull." 

Will held the cherry in his hand, Blake's palm warm under his knuckles. 

"Okay," he said softly, waiting for Blake to move away. 

Blake dropped his hand, but still stood close behind him. His other hand found the small of Will's back, and it was all Will could do not to jump away at the touch. It felt like he was going to burn alive. 

"Try another," Blake encouraged, his fingers pressing harder against Will's back. 

With his empty hand, Will took hold of another cherry stalk, giving it a quick yank. It came away easily. 

"Perfect," Blake patted him on the back, "You've got it. Just put those in the bucket and keep goin'." 

He moved away after what felt like an age, and Will let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. On slightly shaking legs, Will walked over to the bucket and deposited the fruits. When he looked up, he saw that Blake had moved back to his own tree, and was now deftly picking fruit after fruit. 

They worked for a while, Blake filling up the silence with almost mindless chatter. Every so often, Joe would reappear to tell Blake with a laugh that he was full of bullshit, at which Blake would swear that everything he was saying was true. After they'd filled two buckets, Joe went up to the house to give the cherries to his mother, leaving Will and Blake alone amongst the trees. 

Apparently tired, Blake sat down, leaning his back against the trunk of one of the trees and knotting his fingers together over his stomach. Will sat too, back against a different tree. 

"Have I told ya about the time I broke me arm?" Blake asked, looking at Will through hooded eyes. 

"No, you haven't," Will said, shifting so that his legs, spread out in front of him, crossed at the ankle. 

"I was seven, right?" Blake was smiling, but it was different from his usual cheeky grin. It seemed wistful, almost melancholic; Will knew right away that this story was going to be different. "It was around this time - my birthday, actually."

"When's your birthday?" Will interrupted. He wouldn't normally intrude, hated the thought of cutting someone else off, but he was gripped by a sudden fear - that of Blake's birthday passing by without him even knowing. 

"Twen'y fifth of July. Few weeks away." Blake seemed to grimace as he said it. He looked at his thumbs, tapping a light, irregular beat on his chest, before continuing. "Anyway, summer of '56. We're pickin' cherries, tryna find any late ones, y'know? 'Cause cherries, they don't ripen off the tree, so you've gotta leave 'em 'til they're ready. 

"So there we are, little me, Joe, and Dad. An' Dad an' Joe are the ones actually doin' the pickin', 'cause I was too small, but they was pretendin' I were 'elpin'. Now, for some reason or another, Dad heads inside, says he'll only be a minute, an' we better behave." At this, Blake looked up through the tree cover, to the snatches of blue sky that were visible between the branches. 

Will wondered if he were looking for his father up there, or perhaps God himself - maybe they were one and the same. Then again, he told himself, not everything had to mean something else. Sometimes the sky was just the sky. Sometimes Blake's father was just a man. Sometimes. 

"Then Joe says," Blake continued, his gaze moving back down to his hands, "'Ey Tommy, how's about you make yourself useful for once.' He knew how to proper wind me up, so I says, 'I am useful!' and he says, 'Prove it then.'" Blake swallowed, and Will couldn't help gulping too. 

"He tells me to climb up a tree, tallest one we got," at this he looked up again at the tree he was leaning against, "Find any cherries no one else could reach. So up I go, right to the top. An' I'm scared of heights now, but I weren't scared of nothin' back then, so I'm lookin' round, think I can see for miles. Feelin' like the king of the world. 

"An' Joe shouts up, says 'Have you got any cherries yet?' and, of course, I 'aven't, so I start lookin' 'round. But I don't see no cherries. Must've all fallen off by then. So I'm about to tell Joe there's none up there, when I notice this one, perfect cherry, just a few metres away. I'd never seen a cherry so perfect, I tell ya." 

Will snorted, and Blake finally caught his eye, a genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He looked away again. 

"So I try an' get it, don't I? But what I don't realise, is that the tree branches ain't strong enough to hold me over there. So I'm climbing, like it's nothin', and just as I'm about to grab it, there's this huge CRACK. And down I go, fallin' all the way to the bloody ground. Think I hit nearly every branch on the way down," he laughed sardonically, "Landed on me arm," he flexed his right arm in front of him, "Massive crunch, loud as the tree branches breakin'."

"Bloody hell," Will raised his eyebrows. 

"Hmm," Blake nodded, eyes focused now on something in the distance, something Will couldn't see. 

They were quiet for a few moments, Will thinking over Blake's story, and his demeanour, the way he'd grimaced as he mentioned his birthday. 

"What then?" he asked softly, feeling like there was more Blake wanted to tell him. 

Blake gave him a small smile, as if it were a test and Will had passed. "Well Dad came back out, and he went mental. Shoutin' at me for bein' stupid, shoutin' at Joe for not lookin' after me. Drove me to the 'ospital - we had a car back then, see. But the 'ospital, it's a while away, so we was speedin' along, me in the back, moanin' like I'd had me leg chopped off, and my dad at the wheel, drivin' like a lunatic. 

"And then," his voice wavered a little, "This huge bloody truck crashes into the front of the car."

Will inhaled sharply in surprise, suddenly feeling like the ground was falling away beneath him. 

"I- I dunno… _how_ it happened. If Dad was on the wrong side of the road, or if this other fella was," he barked a laugh, but there was no humour to it, "Don't matter anyway, do it? Dad, he… He died on impact."

"Blake," Will said, voice cracking. He didn't know what else to say, didn't think there was anything he could say, but he had to say _something._

Blake didn't respond, eyes fixed firmly on that invisible point he'd found before. He'd shifted so his knees were hugged close to his chest. For a moment, Will saw that seven year old boy. 

"Blake," he said again, standing on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else. He walked over to where Blake was sat, almost unaware of his actions. 

"Blake," he repeated a third time as he sat down next to him, shoulders pressed firm against each other. 

Neither of them said anything else for a long while, Blake looking forlornly at a ghost, and Will watching him. It hit him in slow waves, the tragedy of Blake's story, how sudden the loss he'd experienced was. He wondered if Blake's life was now split into two parts: everything up to the moment of his father's death, and then everything after. Or perhaps it was more like three parts, with the third being the point at which he made peace with his dad's departure. Will wondered if he'd reached that point yet. 

As the minutes wore on, each stretching into a new lifetime, it washed over him, too, the enormity of what Blake had shared with him. It was more than a story of a broken arm. It was the fracturing of Blake's young life. It was a missing fragment, adorned with cherries. 

"I've never told anyone that before," Blake admitted at last, as if he were reading Will's thoughts. "I mean, Mum and Joe know, obviously, but… They don't know it were my fault. If I'd just…" he trailed off. 

"It _wasn't_ your fault," Will said, a hand reaching out to grab Blake's arm. 

Blake looked at the place where their skin was touching, Will's long fingers wrapped around his bicep, just above his elbow. Then he looked up at Will, an unreadable expression on his face. He stared for a while, as if contemplating him, and Will stared back, eyes wide, sincere. 

Whether he believed Will or not, he turned away with a sigh, and pushed himself up to standing. He held out a hand for Will to take, pulling him up from against the tree. 

"Let's go in," he said, "I'm hungry." He started back through the trees, towards the house. 

Will stayed behind a few seconds, watching Blake's back. "Blake," he called out again, and Blake stopped, turning to look at him. Will took a deep breath. "Thanks for telling me." 

Blake said nothing. He gave Will a short sharp nod, before continuing on his way. Will threw one last glance around the orchard, across the blasted cherry trees, and followed Blake up the hill. 

*

Sunday found Will in the Blakes' kitchen again. Joe and Mrs Blake were at church this week, leaving Blake to his own devices. 

After Blake's confession amongst the cherry trees, Will felt a renewed desire to spend time with Blake, even more so than before. This urge came not from attraction, or even friendship, but a want to _protect_ Blake in all his newly discovered fragility. It was perhaps a little silly, a long-buried hero complex coming to the fore; indeed, there was nothing really different about Blake - he was exactly the same person that he had been before - but Will felt that the sharing of such trauma should be rewarded with a sense of safety. The feeling that there was someone who wanted to make sure he never felt that same danger again. 

When he'd arrived, Blake had hurried him into the kitchen, where the table was empty, aside from a chipped plate, holding a single slice of bread, and a bottle of red wine, stolen, no doubt, from Mrs Blake's stores. 

"What's this?" Will laughed. 

"Holy Communion, innit?" Blake grinned, tugging at his wrist, "Come on, sit down."

They sat down opposite each other. Immediately, Will reached for the wine, and Blake slapped his hand away. 

"Prayers first," he scolded, putting his hands together. 

Will mirrored him, keeping his eyes open as he always did, watching Blake talk to God. He liked Blake like this - eyes closed, but his face open, as if he'd never been more honest in his life. 

"Dear Lord," Blake began, "Hope you're doin' alright." 

Will snickered. 

"Things are goin' pretty good down 'ere. Thank you for grantin' us prosperity and good health. Thank you for the bread at this table. Thank you for Scho, in all his unholy repulsiveness-" 

"Piss off," Will whispered, making Blake laugh. 

"-and thank you for my eternal beauty. Thanks for not lettin' Myrtle's foot get infected when she got that thorn stuck in it. Thanks for makin' sure Joe didn't get fired, even when he turned up for work hungover."

"That happened?" Will hissed, astonished. 

"Yeah," Blake cracked an eye open and grinned, "I'll tell you about it later." 

He closed his eyes, turning back to God. "Please let this happiness continue. Please continue to bless us, so we may carry out your will on earth, and one day be united with you in Heaven," he paused for breath, "Please bless Scho's sister and her new baby, and bring them safety and joy." 

Will couldn't help the smile that spread over his face, overwhelming fondness for Blake once again seeping into his bones, tickling at his joints. 

"Am-" Blake began, but Will interrupted him. 

"Lord," he said, watching Blake's eyes flicker open in surprise before allowing his own to close, "Thank you for bringing me here. Thank you for leading me to my aunt's house, and thank you for leading me to Blake. I truly don't believe I have ever been so happy, and it is only through your grace that I could achieve it. Thank you. 

"And God," he opened his eyes now to find Blake still staring at him incredulously. He stared back as he spoke. "If you see Blake's dad, say hi."

They both sat, breathing quietly, locked in each other's gaze for a few moments. Will felt his hands, still pressed together, were becoming sweaty and hot. 

"Amen," he whispered at last. 

"Amen," Blake echoed. 

"Right," Will drummed his palms on the table, wanting to change the mood as fast as he could, "Shall we crack open this wine then?" 

"No," Blake chuckled, as if coming back to his senses, "Body first, remember?" 

"Ah, yes." 

"Oh balls," Blake muttered as Will reached for the bread. 

"What?" 

"Forgot a bloody candle," he pursed his lips, before reaching into his pockets, "Hold on," he pulled out a cigarette and lit it, holding it vertically in the middle of the table, "Here we are. Our holy flame." 

Will laughed, watching the lit end of the fag pathetically smoke and smoulder. 

"Split the bread Scho. Wait, is there somethin' we're supposed to say before?" 

Will frowned, trying to remember the last time he took the Eucharist. "No, I don't think so." 

"Alright, tear it up then." 

Carefully, Will tore the slice of bread into two, and then tore it again, so there were four unequal pieces. 

"Right," with one hand still holding the cigarette, Blake picked up one of the pieces of bread, "Body of Christ," he said, raising the bread into the air, before reaching across the table to place it in Will's mouth. 

Will quickly swallowed down the bread, before taking a piece himself. "Body of Christ," he repeated what Blake had done, lifting it skyward, before standing to reach over the table and place it on Blake's waiting tongue. He refused to acknowledge the stirring in his gut at the image of Blake gazing up at him, mouth open wide, but he knew it was something he'd probably revisit later - and feel catastrophically guilty about. 

"Okay," Blake said, eating his bread and taking a quick drag from the consecrated cigarette, "Now for the Blood." 

He took hold of the wine and unscrewed the lid. 

"Y'know," Will smiled as he watched Blake bring the bottle to his lips, "In church they usually use a cup." 

"Yeah, well," Blake took another drag of the cig, "We ain't in church." 

He raised the bottle with a "Blood of Christ," before tipping his head back and taking a long swig. 

"Fucking hell," Will laughed as Blake placed the bottle back on the table and made a face of disgust, "You're not supposed to drink the whole thing!" 

"Bloody disgusting," Blake muttered, raising the cigarette to his mouth a third time, the inside of his lips stained dark by the wine. 

"Blood of Christ," Will took his turn, only drinking a mouthful, feeling guilty for taking some of Mrs Blake's drink. "Bleh! Jesus, that's bad." He reasoned that perhaps they were doing Mrs Blake a favour, and the sense of blame died down again. 

"Okay," Will screwed the top back on the wine, "What now?" 

Blake looked thoughtful for a few moments, feeding himself another piece of bread. Then he grabbed the wine bottle again, unscrewed the lid, and took another swig. 

_"Blake!"_ Will giggled in disbelief, "It's eleven in the morning!" 

"So?" Blake wiped his mouth on his wrist, "S'a holy day, innit? We can do whatever we want." 

"I don't think that's quite how it works," Will said, but he took another drink from the bottle all the same. 

It didn't take long for them to finish the bottle between them, Will pouring the last vile dregs onto his tongue, and pouting when no more would come. He'd been drunk before, and he'd drank wine before, but he'd never been wine drunk. He supposed he hadn't really had enough to be truly wine drunk, but he still felt a slight burn in his veins, and a delightful dizziness clouded his head. 

"Le's get more," Blake was saying, looking between the empty bottle, the stubbed out fag on the plate, and Will. 

"No," Will put a hand on Blake's forearm to stop him in case he moved, although he didn't seem like he was really going anywhere. 

"Alright," Blake ran a finger around the edge of the plate on the table, dipping in and out of the large triangular gap where part of it was missing. Around the outside, a pattern of cherries circled the centre. They were small and looked as if they had been painted on by hand. Perhaps by Blake's mother. 

As Will watched Blake's finger slip in and out of the broken segment for the third time, he realised that the shape looked familiar. Gripped by sudden urgency, he fumbled in his pocket to find the fragment of Mabel's plate that he still carried around. He placed the pottery on the table, next to the plate. 

"Wha's that?" Blake frowned. 

Will didn't answer, instead moving to slot his fragment into Blake's plate. It fit almost perfectly. 

"Woah," Blake breathed, tilting his head to examine it from different angles. 

It was obvious that the piece was from a different plate, the edge being slightly thicker, and the colour being more cream than white. But the edges aligned almost exactly with those of the other plate, and the rose bud pattern blended seamlessly with the cherries that ran around the rest of the plate. 

It was insane, Will thought as he held the two pieces together. It didn't make sense how two separate things could fracture so perfectly, so that they could somehow fit themselves together. And yet. 

"D'you have any glue?" he asked Blake. 

*

It was dusk when Will's mother called. He'd been sat next to the phone, preparing to call Blake and complain about the headache he was sporting after sobering up, when it had started ringing. 

"Hello?" he'd asked, knowing it couldn't be Blake. 

"Hello, is that you Will?" his mother's voice was grating, making his ears ring a little more. 

"Uh, yes, hello." 

"Oh good, how've you been, dear?" she didn't wait for him to answer, "It's been very hectic down here, you know. It's getting closer to Eliza's due date, so we're trying to make sure everything's ready. Susie was early, if you remember-" he didn't, "-so we have to make sure we're prepared for every eventuality."

"Right," Will said, "How is Eliza?" 

His mother sighed, "She's okay. Tired mostly. Can't blame her, poor thing."

"Hmm," Will nodded, "And Susie?" 

"Oh she's a little rascal. She's obsessed with next door's cat. Calls it Kitty, and wants it to move in with us." 

Will laughed at this, suddenly aching to see his niece again. 

"So how are you?" his mother circled back to her original question, "How's Mabel?" 

"I'm okay, we're okay." 

"Good, good. Eating lots of veg?" 

"Yes." 

"Not staying out late, like you would to torture your father and I?" 

He sighed. "No, Mum." 

"Very good."

She quizzed him a little more, questioning him on what he was doing to help Mabel, whether he'd found a job up there, how else he was spending his time. When she asked if he was going to church, he said yes. What he didn't tell her was that he now worshipped at the altar of Tom Blake, and that he had no intention of ever praying anywhere else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the story about tom's dad feels a bit *private, peaceful'-y, so you can blame michael morpurgo for that
> 
> i hope the eucharist scene wasn't too sacrilegious. also i dont recommend drinking a whole bottle of wine at once, even if you are sharing it with someone.
> 
> (the first time i saw 1917, i saw actually wine drunk, so that was an experience in itself)
> 
> once again, comments are greatly appreciated, hope you enjoyed, have a lovely day!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 chapters in 2 days? who am i? 
> 
> anyway, this one's a bit of a rollercoaster, and i found it kinda difficult to write, so i hope it's still up to standard, so to speak
> 
> it gets a bit _suggestive_ but nothing warenting a change of age rating (yet)
> 
> hope you enjoy!

"What shall we toast to?" Mabel asked, holding her wine glass. She looked around the table, first at Will, then at Blake. 

"To you," Blake raised his bottle of beer, "Miss Schofield, and her _marvellous_ cookin'." 

"Oh, Tom-" Mabel started to protest, a pink flush rising on her face. 

Will interrupted her, raising his own bottle next to Blake's. "To Mabel Schofield." 

"To Mabel," Blake repeated, throwing a sideways grin at Will. 

"Hmm," Mabel made a disapproving noise as she raised her glass, _"And,"_ she said, "To my esteemed guests, Tom and Will."

"Cheers!" Blake clinked his bottle first against Will's, and then against Mabel's glass, before taking a long swig. 

"Cheers!" Will and Mabel echoed, clinking their drinks together and drinking too. 

"Okay," Mabel smiled at them both, placing her glass back on the table, "Let's eat." 

"Fanks again for invitim' me, Misses Scho," Blake said through a mouthful of broccoli. 

Will grinned as his aunt laughed. "It's no problem, Tom. You and Will are practically joint at the hip! Consider yourself family." 

Not one for keeping to traditional timescales, Mabel had cooked a Sunday roast on a Thursday evening, and insisted that Will invite Blake to join them. Always one for a roast dinner, Blake had heartily agreed, and arrived at the cottage in record time. Now the three of them were sat at the kitchen table, three plates heaped with chicken, potatoes, vegetables, and gravy. Blake had brought with him four bottles of beer, and a bottle of red wine for Mabel, by way of thanks. (Will suspected that, too, was swiped from Mrs Blake's cupboard, but didn't mention it.) 

They ate in silence for a while, Blake's mouth too full to begin a story. Outside, a light rainfall pattered against the window panes. Looking around the table in the low lamplight of the kitchen, Will was swallowed by an overwhelming contentment. It eased over his ribs, dripping between them like honey, as he realised that he'd never felt more at home than with his aunt and his friend. He wondered if it were possible to bottle a moment and live in it forever. 

"You look happy, Will," Mabel smiled as she looked up from her food. 

He wondered if there was a secret question hidden in her words, asking _why_ he looked so happy. That was often the case with his parents, everything coupled with a double meaning, a demand for an explanation. But he didn't know how to explain to her the simple joy he was feeling. It was the sudden sense of belonging. The act of fixing a broken plate. There weren't enough words in his vernacular, not enough of the right ones, at least.

"I am," was all he said, and his aunt smiled wider. 

"Good," she nodded, as if he had passed a test.

After dinner, Will insisted on washing up, and Blake insisted on helping. They worked as a well-oiled machine, Will cleaning the dinnerware, and Blake drying. For a moment, Will dared to imagine a future that was exactly like this - he and Blake drowned in a lazy lake of domesticity. 

"Pass me my beer," he told Blake, in the middle of scrubbing the glass dish Mabel had cooked the chicken in. 

"Yer hands are wet," Blake protested, although he picked up Will's beer anyway and stole a swig for himself. 

"You pour it then, c'mon, I'm thirsty," Will opened his mouth like a baby bird, waiting to be fed. 

Shaking his head in disbelief, Blake held up the bottle and poured beer into Will's waiting mouth. They both snorted with laughter when half of it dribbled down Will’s chin, a brown liquid beard. Blake wiped it away with the tea towel before it dripped down Will’s neck. 

"Hey," Will said quietly a little while later as he emptied the sink, "Two weeks 'til your birthday."

"So it is," Blake sounded solemn, but he was clearly trying not to be. 

"Any plans?" Will asked, rinsing away the remaining soap bubbles. He remembered Blake's story of his eighteenth, going to the pub with Joe. He also remembered Blake telling him that it was the worst birthday ever, although he knew now that wasn't true. 

A mischievous glint came into Blake's eye. "Well," his voice was low and conspiratorial, "I went to school with this bloke, right? Name's Cooke, old man's a bus driver. Got a brother in the military. 

"Anyway, I bumped into 'im the other day at the post office. I was gettin' some stamps for Mum, 'cause she's started writin' to her cousin up in Scotland. I've told her, it's cheaper and easier to just use the phone but she said that ain't the point. Anyway," he halted his tangent, "Where was I?"

"Cooke," Will smiled wryly. 

"Right, yeah. So's I bump into Cooke at the post office, and we get chattin'. Now Cooke, he's an alright guy, y'know? Upstandin' fella an' all that. But he's got a few mates who're into some... dodgier dealin's, shall we say? 

"Anyway, to cut a long story short, Cooke reckons he can get us some…" he paused dramatically, glancing around as if Mabel, or someone else, were hiding in the shadows of the kitchen, _"Grass,"_ he whispered. 

Will raised an eyebrow, amused. "Yeah?" 

"Yeah!" Blake grinned, "So I was thinkin', y'know, only if you wanted, me an' you, we could spend my birthday doin' that." 

He was stammering a little, Will noted. Trying to be cool and casual, but failing to hide his puppy dog excitement - or nerves. He briefly thought back to his first meeting with Blake, and talking in Blake's kitchen about pot. The admiration on Blake's face had been funny and endearing, like he believed Will was so much _better_ for having dabbled in the substance. 

But the fact was that Will was neither better nor worse for smoking pot. He was exactly the same. And the truth was that he hadn't missed it like he thought he would up here. As freeing as it was, he felt more free just being with Blake. 

Still, as he looked at Blake, radiating excitement, he knew that no matter what he said, Blake would be going ahead with it anyway. And there was no way he could let Blake trip alone. 

"Sounds like a plan," he grinned, blinded by Blake's returning beam. 

As the evening wore on, the weather worsened, rain drumming heavier and louder on the windows and the roof. It culminated when Will and Blake stood at the backdoor, trying and failing to smoke a cigarette in the damp wind. Will held the cigarette in his mouth as Blake clicked the lighter, trying to light it for the fifth time, when they heard the first rumble of thunder. 

"Oh shit," Blake murmured, face paling in the dim light. 

"You alright?" Will frowned, taking the cigarette out of his mouth. 

Before Blake could answer, Mabel hurried into the kitchen, eyes wide. "Did you boys hear that?" she asked, as if worried she'd heard it on the telly - or that she hadn't really heard it at all.

"Yes," Will nodded, as a second grumble split the air, "We heard it." 

"Well come in, quickly, quickly," she beckoned them away from the door, closing it behind them. 

"Hopefully it dies down before I have to head back," Blake murmured, uncharacteristically quiet. 

"Well if it doesn't, you can always stay here," Mabel told him, pouring herself a new glass of wine. Will couldn't remember how many she'd already had. 

"Oh, no, I couldn't possibly intrude…" Blake began to protest. 

"Nonsense," Mabel said briskly, "I won't be seeing you out in this weather. You can sleep with Will." 

At this, Will almost choked on his own spit.

"Are you sure?" Blake glanced worriedly between Mabel and Will. 

"Certain," Mabel nodded, "Aren't we Will?" 

"Um, yes," Will agreed. 

And he did agree, to an extent. He was certain he didn't want Blake to brave the elements when he could just stay here, especially with Blake's sudden jitteryness. 

Equally, he resented Mabel's choice of words, the promise that Blake could "sleep with Will." She had meant it, of course, in all innocent sense of the word. That for one night, Will could split his sleep with his friend, thus ensuring him safety. But even in that sexless definition, there was a level of intimacy to it that he was deathly afraid of. To lie next to Blake would be to lie there exposed. There was trust, was there not, in sharing a bed. Trust that the space would be shared equally. Trust that the covers wouldn't be stolen. Trust that you wouldn't listen in to the other's dreams as they slept. 

And it wasn't that Will didn't trust Blake; he'd trusted Blake from the moment that they'd met. It was himself he didn't trust. He couldn't believe that he might not do something careless, like get used to lying with Blake. 

He resolved that, if it came to it, he would sleep on the sofa. 

"Thanks," Blake threw them both small grateful smiles. 

"Then lads," Mabel smiled, her tone commanding, "Let us _dance_ this storm away!" 

They followed her to the living room, Will embarrassed at her eccentricity. Next to him, Blake was smiling though, so he tried to shove his shame away. 

Mabel clicked off the television, and started up a record. Expecting pop music, perhaps The Beatles again, Will braced himself for Mabel's wild dancing. But instead, a classical record started playing, and Mabel turned up the volume loud enough to almost drown out the sounds of the storm. The two watched as Mabel spun dramatically into the middle of the room, still clutching her wine glass in one hand, and started swaying. 

"Join me, boys," she said, eyes closed. 

The pair shuffled closer, exchanging questioning glances. Were they going to join her? Were they brave enough? Would it be too embarrassing? 

"Oh, you teenagers are all the same," Mabel grumbled when she opened her eyes and found them standing stiff and awkward. She placed her wine on a side table, and took a hold of first Will's hand, then Blake's. "Let's join hands, and dance."

"This is like what hippies do, ain't it?" Blake grinned as he slid his fingers between Will's, slotting their hands together almost perfectly. 

"Have you ever _seen_ a hippy?" Will smiled back, relieved that any shame and embarrassment was ebbing away, replaced by the warmth of Blake's hand in his, and the short sharp jolts of electricity that seemed to be running up his arm. 

"Seen 'em on telly," Blake shrugged. 

Mabel started walking the three of them in a circle, slowly and deliberately. It seemed the music didn't matter, for they were setting their own pace. They began to speed up, faster and faster, until they were running in a circle in the centre of the room. 

And Will started to laugh, loud and deep. Not because it was funny, but because he was happy, in such a bizarre way. At that moment, joy felt so simple, so easy. This was what his whole life had been building up to, he decided. This moment would stretch on into forever, and nothing else really mattered. 

He turned his head to look at Blake. Blake, who was already looking at him. Blake, with his face split wide into a huge grin, eyes crinkled with happiness. Blake, so beautiful, in the warm living room light. So beautiful all the time. 

Will squeezed Blake's hand, and when Blake squeezed back, he laughed even louder. 

*

By ten o'clock, it was apparent that the storm wouldn't be letting up any time soon. Blake called his mother and informed her that he would be staying with Will tonight. From Blake's repeated reassurance, Will gathered that Mrs Blake was worried about him being away from home. 

"I'll be fine," Blake said for the fourth time, and added, "I'll be with Will." 

This apparently settled Mrs Blake's mind, in the same way that it unsettled the butterflies roosting in the cavity of Will's stomach. She soon said goodnight, calling out, "Sweet dreams," in the same way that Blake did on his calls with Will. 

"Mum's worried, 'cause she knows I don't like storms," Blake explained as Will led him upstairs, "Normally Myrtle comes and sleeps on me bed and that calms me down a bit." 

He paused as they reached Will's room, and Will realised he'd never invited Blake inside before. 

"It's not much," he felt the need to preface before opening the door. He entered first and fumbled for the light, a sinking feeling in his stomach as he looked over the scarcity of the room with new eyes. It looked bare, hardly lived in. You could barely tell that Will had been sleeping in it for almost a month. 

"I like it," Blake said, walking in behind him and throwing his gaze over the walls, the floors, the furniture, "It feels like you." 

"It does?" Will frowned. 

"Yeah. I dunno how to explain it, but," Blake pressed a palm against the wall beside him, "S'like I'm breathin' in _you."_

"Oh." An involuntary shiver ran up Will's spine, and he thought back to Blake's room, Blake inhaling Will's smoke. For half a second, the world shook. 

He walked over to the drawers in the corner, fishing out two sets of pyjamas - one for him, and one for Blake.

"Here," he thrust the checkered pyjamas towards Blake and started out the door, "The bedsheets are mostly clean, but I can change them for you if you want. Shout me if you need anything." 

"Wha- Where are you goin'?" Blake frowned, confused. 

"I'm gonna sleep on the sofa," Will said, avoiding Blake's gaze, "So you can have the bed to yourself." 

"No way," Blake grabbed his wrist, as if he might suddenly run away, "I'm not kickin' you outta yer own bed." 

"S'not _my_ bed," Will muttered, aiming a light kick at the skirting board. But even as he said it, it felt wrong in his mouth, coating his tongue with an acidic taste. 

"Oh, whatever," Blake sighed, still holding Will's wrist, "Look, I just… I don't wanna be alone, alright?" 

Will finally looked up at Blake, saw the pleading in his eyes, heard the waver in his voice. He was truly afraid. 

"Alright," he relented with a small smile, "I'll be Myrtle." 

Blake laughed. "Good dog!" He released Will's wrist and reached up to card his fingers through Will's hair, as if he were stroking a dog. The ghostly graze of his fingernails over Will's scalp sent a tingle to every nerve ending in his body. 

They went back into the room and changed clothes with their backs to each other. Will resisted the urge to sneak glances of Blake's back over his shoulder, knowing that if he saw the smooth skin there, he'd probably be unable to tear his eyes away. 

In the bathroom, Will offered Blake his toothbrush. Blake refused, quickly running toothpaste around his mouth with his finger, before leaving Will to finish washing himself up. 

When he returned to the room, he found Blake starfished on the bed, gazing at the same ceiling that Will so often stared at. 

"You'll be taking the whole bed then?" Will joked, taking a careful seat on the edge. 

Blake glanced at him, before pushing himself up to sitting. He leaned back on his hands. "Which side d'ya want?" 

"I don't mind," Will raised a noncommittal shoulder, "You're the guest." 

"Hmm," Blake chewed on his lip for a few moments, clearly deliberating. "I'll take this side," he announced, rolling to the far side of the bed. 

Will nodded, and reached for the bedside lamp before standing to switch off the room light. The room was now bathed in yellow, warm and homely. From the bed, Blake was smiling at him, sweet and golden as honey, and Will's heart jumped in his chest. That feeling of content, the one he'd been feeling all evening, was once again renewed as he watched Blake throw back the sheets and clamber beneath them. He pulled back the cover on Will's side too, inviting him to join. 

Cautiously, Will eased himself onto the mattress, moving slowly like an old man. He could feel Blake's eyes on him. Heavy and watchful. When he lay down, he was stiff, painfully aware of every inch between his shoulder and Blake's. He didn't mind being close to Blake normally. In fact, he quite liked it. But it was different here, in Will's bed. Here, he was scared. 

The mattress creaked as Blake turned onto his side, still looking at Will. Will lay still, half convincing himself that Blake couldn't see him if he didn't move. 

"Scho," Blake's voice was soft, barely above a whisper, "Thanks for stayin' with me." 

Will finally risked a glance at Blake, noting his earnest expression, the grateful shine of his eyes. He lifted the corner of his mouth in a smile. "It's what friends do." 

Blake half smiled back, tucking his arm under his pillow. "Yeah. I s'pose it is." 

He looked so soft, Will thought, curls loosening against his forehead, swamped by Will's pyjamas. It made him ache, burning with the desire to reach out and touch. The overwhelming want for something he couldn't have. 

"Can I switch the light off?" Will asked, wanting so desperately to hide under the cover of darkness. He was certain he would not feel the heat of Blake's stare through the blackness, would perhaps forget, somehow Blake's form, and leave him some invisible entity on the other side of the mattress. 

"Alright," Blake murmured, watching Will reach up and click off the lamp. 

"Goodnight Blake," Will rolled onto his side, facing away from Blake. His skin still buzzed with the distance between Blake and himself, like a warning siren, a boundary. 

"Night Scho," Blake whispered back. 

In the dark and the quiet, Will's hearing split into two - the sound of the storm outside, and the sound of Blake breathing behind him. Although the storm was louder, Blake's breathing was deafening. He tried to focus on the syncopated rhythm of the rain on the roof, the howl of the wind through the trees. But all he could hear was Blake's gentle in and out, slow, as if he were already asleep. 

Will had almost drifted off, his muscles finally relaxing, when a huge crack of thunder split the air, followed almost immediately by a white flash of lightning that briefly illuminated the entire room. Behind him, Blake's breathing quickened, short and sharp and shallow. 

Overcome by that choking desire to protect Blake, Will rolled over to face him. Blake was curled up in the sheet, eyes wide and unblinking. 

"Hey," Will whispered, "Blake?" 

"Scho," Blake's voice was strangled, as if fear itself had a grip of his throat. 

"Hey, hey," Will reached out his hands and found Blake in the dark. Blake grabbed hold of him as if he were a lifeline. "I'm here." 

"God," Blake said after a few shaking breaths, "This is fucking pathetic." He tried for a laugh, but it came out as more of a sigh. 

"It's not," Will started to pull Blake closer, braver in his newfound role of protector, "We can't help what we're afraid of." 

"What're you scared of?" Blake asked, hands wrapped around Will's forearms. 

"Being buried alive," he murmured, thinking back on a recurring nightmare he had when he was younger. Sometimes when he woke up, it still felt like his lungs were full of dust. 

Blake released him now, running a lone finger up and down Will’s arm. Will tried not to shiver or squirm, but it tickled and burned in a way that made him want to cry more than laugh. 

"Tell me a story," Blake said, quiet and childlike. 

"You're the storyteller, Blake, not me," Will smiled. 

Blake scoffed. "I'm no storyteller, I've just got a big mouth. Nah, go on. Tell me that sieve one." 

"The Jumblies?" 

Blake nodded against his pillow. 

Will exhaled slowly, and began. "They went to sea in a Sieve they did…" 

He wasn't sure when Blake fell asleep, nor if he even finished the poem. But part way through the first stanza, Blake's fingers had intertwined with his, and neither of them let go until the morning. 

*

A week passed, and neither of them mentioned that night, nor the morning after, when they had disentangled their hands without a word, and avoided each other's eyes all through breakfast. That didn't mean Will wasn't thinking about it, of course, because he absolutely was. Each time Blake accidentally brushed his hand against Will's, he thought about taking it, of reinstating that warmth and comfort. He didn't, because that would be the opposite of careful. But a strange satisfaction ran through his blood at the new knowledge that Blake didn't seem to mind holding Will's palm in his own. 

"Do we _have_ to listen to this?" Will asked, lying on Blake's bed. Each previous visit to Blake's room, Will had felt that the bed was off limits, doubly so if Blake was sitting on it. But now, a new line had been drawn in the sand. That boundary had been removed, and Will could allow himself to relax on Blake's bed, as Blake sat smoking next to him. 

"Yes, we do," Blake grinned, flicking ash at Will, "It's a good album!" 

The album in question was Pet Sounds, the one Blake had bought two weeks earlier. They'd already listened to Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band at Will's request, and now Blake had insisted on them listening to one of his choices. Besides, he'd reasoned, it was his record player. 

Will had almost mumbled something in retaliation, about _him_ choosing the music when they used _his_ record player, but remembered sadly at the last moment that his record player was back at home - a world away from Blake. Instead he'd settled for blowing smoke rings at Blake's ceiling until Blake had taken the cigarette back. 

As he listened, he had to admit that he was quite enjoying the album - perhaps more so when he watched Blake mouthing the words along with the music. He couldn't tell Blake that though; he refused to admit defeat. 

"What do you want for your birthday?" he changed the subject. 

"Huh?" Blake asked distractedly. 

Will pushed himself up onto his elbows. "I _said,_ what do you want for your birthday?" 

"Well I already told ya what I wanna do, didn't I?" Blake frowned. 

"No, but," Will sighed, "I mean like a _present,_ y'know?" 

Blake snorted derisively. "You're not gettin' me a present Scho." 

"Oh yeah?" Will sat up straight now, eye to eye with Blake, "Says who?" 

"Says me," Blake muttered dismissively, stubbing out his finished cigarette on the plate beside his bed (the one with Will's plate fragment, he tried not to notice) before immediately lighting another one. 

"You can't stop me getting you anything," Will shrugged, stubborn. 

"S'pose not," Blake said stiffly before sighing, "Look Scho, there's nothin' that I want. Nothin' you can buy, anyway."

"There's nothing, _nothing,_ that you want?" Will raised his eyebrows at Blake, "Not a single tiny little thing?" 

Blake sighed again, scratching his forehead with his thumb. "There's _one_ thing I want," he admitted. 

Will sat up straighter, ready to listen. 

"But it's impossible," Blake added, taking a long, languid drag of his cig. 

"Tell me," Will leaned forward, close enough to smell the cherry undertones on Blake's breath. 

He was determined, desperate almost, to give Blake _something_ for his birthday, as a token of his appreciation. Already, Blake had given him the best summer of his life, had made him feel happy and light where he would usually feel dark and dreary. And he was certain that he had given Blake nothing in return - nothing of equal value, anyway. Whatever Blake wanted, be it physical or symbolic, Will vowed to himself that he would find it. He had to demonstrate, somehow, what Blake meant to him. 

Blake sighed, jutting his chin and looking out the window for a long time. Eventually he turned back to Will, a new emotion in his eyes and said, "It really _is_ impossible, y'know." 

"Whatever it is, I'll find it," Will promised, "Just tell me." 

He half expected Blake to say something funny, like he wanted a mansion, or something dripping in sentiment, like he wanted his father back. 

But Blake just stared at him, mouth set in a line and a pleading glaze over his bright blue eyes. 

_"Christ,_ Will," Blake hissed, as Will just looked at him blankly, barely registering that Blake had used his first name, "You're so _bloody_ thick." 

He dropped the cigarette, still smouldering delicately, and placed a hand either side of Will's face. His lower lip was trembling, his eyes searching Will's with feverish desperation. What he was looking for, Will realised at an agonisingly slow pace, was his own reflection. A sign that Will wanted this was much as he did. 

And it was now, with a gasp, that Will knew what Blake was asking for. What he was about to do. Blake edged forward slowly, giving Will enough time to retreat and make his escape. Will stayed, frozen. Involuntarily, his eyes fluttered closed. He wondered if Blake's were still open. 

When Blake's lips touched his, soft and chaste, William Schofield exploded into a thousand tiny butterflies. 

They stayed frozen like that for a while (seconds, minutes, hours - Will couldn't say). Two boys, statuesque, as their lips barely brushed. And perhaps, if they'd stayed suspended in that moment, then things would have been alright. 

Blake pulled away, released Will's face, and immediately stood up. He seemed abruptly aware of the foolishness of his actions, the crushing weight of what he'd done. 

Will, drunk on the ghost of Blake's kiss, dizzied at this sudden revelation, stared up at him. He felt as if he'd been filled with sunlight, that it had poured forth from Blake's mouth into his own. The lampshade behind Blake's head looked like a halo. 

"Scho-" Blake started, raising both hands in front of him as if he were afraid Will might attack. 

"That…" Will murmured, "That's what you want?" 

Blake inhaled sharply. "Look Scho, like I said, it's impossible and- and I understand if you don't wanna see me anymore-" 

"Blake." 

Will stood and took hold of one of Blake's hands. Slowly, holding his gaze, he brought Blake's palm to his mouth and kissed it gently. Blake let out a shuddering breath. Will let go of Blake's hand and brought his own to rest on Blake's shoulders. He stood still as Blake's palm tentatively moved from Will's lips, caressing his cheek and moving into his hair. 

"Blake," Will repeated, before leaning down to capture Blake's mouth with his own. 

Their kisses began soft and innocent, the kind of kisses Will had given his girlfriends when he was thirteen. But as Will's hands slipped from Blake's shoulders to slide slowly down his back, as Blake's fingers knotted themselves into Will's hair, the kisses deepened, descending into a feverish madness of heat and wet. Will's teeth grazed Blake's lower lip, and Blake _moaned,_ guttural and animalistic. 

The noise sent heat down to the bottom of Will's stomach, a rush of blood to his groin. 

The noise also brought Will back to his senses. He stopped, pulling back from Blake, who first tried to chase his mouth, but drew back when he realised that Will had frozen. 

"What, Scho?" Blake whispered. There was a tremor in his voice, as if he already knew what Will was going to say. 

"We can't do this," Scho muttered, dropping his hands to his sides and stepping back, "We- we _can't,_ it's against the law."

"They _changed_ the law," Blake argued, although his shoulders slumped, "Last year, you _know_ they changed it." 

"Not for us," Will's hands rose to his temple, trying to hold the sudden skull-splitting headache that had formed, "We're- We're too young, we _can't-"_

"Who _cares_ about the law, Will?" Blake was pleading now, switching back to Will's first name, running a hand through his hair, "It's not like anyone's gonna find out!" 

Will scrunched his eyes shut and shook his head. "Do your family know? About you? Do they- Does your mother know that you're- What you are?" 

Blake swallowed and shook his head, dropping his gaze to the floor. 

"Look, I just- I think it would be best if I leave," Will shoved his hands in his pockets.

He waited for Blake to say something, anything. He knew that if Tom asked him to stay, then he would. He'd go back on everything he'd just said, throwing caution to the wind. Tom only had to ask. 

But Blake just nodded glumly and opened his bedroom door. "See ya then," he muttered, turning away and lying down on his bed so Will had no chance to hold him, to change his mind. 

"See ya," Will echoed, closing the door behind him. He stood there, outside Blake's bedroom, for a while, forehead pressed against the wood of the door. The record had stopped playing a while before, Will realised as he listened to the silence. Blake didn't turn it over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> firstly i would like to say sorry
> 
> okay, so in 1967 in the uk the law was changed so that homosexual practices (in private) were no longer illegal. the catch was that you had to be over the age of 21, or you were considered underage (despite the age of consent for heterosexual activities being 16). will is understandably worried about this, especially since he's so close to turning 21
> 
> also im worried mabels turning into a bit of a manic pixie dream aunt, i promise she has more storyline coming up soon 
> 
> hope you enjoyed this chapter, yelling is, as always, welcome in the comments, as well as on twitter and tumblr (@mickydolenzs) <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i think updates might slow down a little now, but here's chapter 8!
> 
> tw again for talking about death 
> 
> also i know she's my own character, but i really love mabel so much
> 
> hope you enjoy!

If Will felt guilty for leaving Blake as he had, he couldn't separate it from the selfish ache that was carving out his chest. It swallowed him up, from the inside out. It sat heavy on his chest, and crushed his ribs inwards, pointing towards the Blake-shaped cavity that was waiting there. 

After leaving Blake's house, he hadn't called. Not that evening, or the evening after, nor the evening after that. As soon as he'd arrived back at Mabel's, he sought refuge in his bedroom, collapsing face first onto the bed sheets. Immediately, he was greeted by the scent of Blake - a little smokey, but still fresh like grass, and sweet like cherries. He hauled himself up again and stripped the sheets from the bed, balling them up and throwing them into the corner. 

Later, Mabel had found him lying on the bare mattress, staring blankly at the ceiling. She didn't say anything. Instead, she sat down next to him, and gently stroked his hair until he sat up and told her that he was hungry; he wasn't, but it was all he could think to say. 

He spent the next couple of days in his room, pretending to read. The book in question was James Baldwin's _Giovanni's Room._ He stared at the same page, reading the same words over and over, and tripping over them each time. The lines read thus: _'Love him,’ said Jacques, with vehemence, ‘love him and let him love you. Do you think anything else under heaven really matters?'_

On Sunday, Will went to church again. He spotted Joe and Mrs Blake, a few pews in front of him, and when Mrs Blake waved at him, he pretended he hadn't noticed them. Throughout the service, he sat with his fingers twisted together in his lap. The father's voice was a quiet drone that he barely took in. He stood close-mouthed through the hymns, and when he closed his eyes to pray, he could only see Blake's face behind his eyelids - asking God for his blessing, and thanking Him for what He already had. As the rest of the congregation echoed the father's "Amen," Will simply whispered, "I'm sorry," and hoped that the Lord would hear him. 

As soon as the service ended, he hurried out of the door and ran all the way back to Mabel’s cottage, stopping only when he was safely behind unholy walls. The thought of having to face Blake's family made him feel sick and dizzy, for more reasons than he could count. Let them think that he hadn't seen them, and hope that neither of them mentioned him to Blake when they returned. 

That afternoon, the phone began to ring as Will watched the blank television screen. He jumped at the sound, muscles tensing, heart pounding at the simultaneous hope and fear that Blake had somehow found a way to call him. For several moments, he stared at the phone, wondering if he should just let it ring out; if he never answered, he would never know - Schrodinger's telephone call. But at the last second, his curiosity got the better of him - perhaps that was what had killed Schrodinger's cat - and with a trembling hand, he lifted the phone to his ear. 

"Hello?" he said, heart in his throat. 

In that split second before anyone spoke, he realised that he _wanted_ it to be Blake on the other end of the line. By God, he just wanted to hear Blake's voice. 

"Will? Is that you?" It was his mother, shrill and hasty as if she were panicked. 

Will choked down his disappointment, letting it settle like a stone in his stomach. 

"Yeah, it's me, is everyth-" 

"Eliza's giving birth," she told him, and suddenly all thoughts of Blake were vanquished. 

"She is? Is she alright?" he jumped to his feet, although he wasn't sure why; it wasn't as if he could rush back home to see her. 

"Yes, she's fine. We're at the hospital now. She went into labour half an hour ago, so we all jumped in the car and here we are," she paused to take a breath, "I hope we got here on time. Hopefully the midwife will be a little more _helpful_ this time." 

Will hesitated, mouth going a little dry before he dared to ask, "Mum, what _did_ happen with Susie's birth?" 

On the other end of the phone, he heard his mother sigh. He pictured her rubbing her forehead, exasperated, as she searched for the right thing to say. When she spoke, her voice was a little choked. If he were speaking to someone else, Will might've believed she was trying not to cry. 

"She was a breach birth. Upside down. Feet first. That type of thing," she explained, "They really struggled getting her out. And she couldn't breathe properly while she was in there. So when they finally did get her out, we were worried she might be… affected, by the lack of oxygen. She had to stay in the hospital for weeks - do you remember? At one point, I thought she might not make it."

As Will listened, he felt a grip of fear - fear for Susie and Eliza. This transformed, first into a bleeding blue sadness, and then a self-righteous anger, uncoiling in his gut. And it was red hot. 

"Why did no one tell me?" he asked stiffly. His lip twitched. 

"You were too young," his mother said dismissively. 

"I _wasn't_ too young. I was _seventeen,"_ his voice was rising, "And she is my _niece!"_

"Don't raise your voice with me!" her volume rose too, _"This_ is why we don't tell you things! You are childish, and immature, and you _never_ show an interest in this family until you can use it against us!" 

"I'm not using it against you!" he shouted, feeling as if the floor had dropped from beneath him, only his heated rage keeping him standing, "I'm _upset_ that no one told me!" 

"I would've told you if you'd asked!" 

"How could I ask?" Tears of frustration pricked his eyes. "I didn't _know!"_

She took a deep breath, before speaking again, voice low and cool. "I won't argue with you right now, William. Your sister is giving birth, and you're making things about you, once again. I'll call back later, when the baby's here. Hopefully you will have taken a hold of yourself by then." 

The line went dead. Will listened to the dull tone for a few moments, as anger and despair rippled through him. It was his own fault, he knew, as he inhaled deeply through his nose. He shouldn't have provoked his mother, shouldn't have let his temper get the better of him.

With a long exhale, he put down the phone, and his anger seeped out of him. He slumped back down into the chair, left with only a horrific loneliness and a desperation for time to unwind itself.

"Is everything alright?" Mabel peered cautiously into the room, "I heard shouting."

Will blew out another breath before contorting his face into a smile. "Mum called," he said, "Eliza's gone into labour."

"Oh, how exciting," Mabel smiled, straightening up and walking into the room. She perched on the arm of Will's seat and looked down at him curiously. "You don't seem very happy," she said quietly.

Will clenched and unclenched his fists. "I just had an argument with Mum, that's all."

She tilted her head to one side and brought up a hand to softly push the hair back from his forehead. "I don't just mean now," she murmured, "You've been off these last few days. Has something happened?" 

Her voice was light and delicate, and if it were anyone else speaking, it might've felt patronising. Will found himself again compelled to admit everything. Mabel always felt so safe, so trusting, that a split second blind spot could be enough to convince Will to spill all his secrets. He wondered if he'd find solace in speaking it all out loud. He wondered if it were possible to find peace in all of this. 

But he knew, no matter how soft her voice, no matter how warm her demeanour, he couldn't tell her. He would at least remain careful in that respect.

"I'm fine," he drew his lips into a tight smile, though it felt like it might rip his face in half.

"Hmm," she nodded once, but still studied him thoughtfully, "You haven't seen much of Tom recently." She didn't comment on this; she simply laid it out as a statement, a fact.

At the mention of Blake, Will felt his shoulders tense, and he had to swallow before he could speak again. "We… We had a falling out."

She nodded again, hand moving to Will's shoulder, and all the tension it held there. "If you want my advice," she was gazing towards a distant memory now, "Fix things. Life's too short for them to stay broken." 

He tried to think of their situation, of how it could be so easy, if only it weren't so difficult. But all he could think about was the plate on Blake's bedside, and the piece that somehow belonged. 

"There's nothing to fix," he sighed, rubbing his hands over his thighs. Deep in his pocket, he still carried around the note with Blake's number on it.

Mabel turned to him with a new light in her eyes. "If there's nothing to fix, then what's the problem?" At this, she squeezed his shoulder and rose to her feet. 

"Come on," she said, "Help me put the washing out."

*

Despite what Mabel had said, Will still didn't call Blake. It wasn't that he didn't _want_ to - because he did, by God, he so desperately did. 

No, he _couldn't_ call Blake, he resolved. It was a matter of protecting himself from his own desires, and the unstoppable consequences that were bound to follow. 

And, more than that, it was about protecting Blake. Will had been with other boys before, in some manner or another, but - as selfish as it felt to admit it - he'd never cared for a single one of those lads half as much as he cared for Blake. What he felt for Blake was more than simple carnal desire; it was, he felt dizzy to realise, something akin to _love._

He didn't know what Blake felt towards him in return - whether he was simply a warm mouth, or if it was something more. But he knew regardless that he had to keep Blake safe. And if that meant his own unhappiness, then so be it. 

For almost a day, he entertained the idea that they could return to being friends. That things could go back to the exact way they had been before they had kissed. But the very thought that Blake wanted Will, in the same way that Will wanted Blake, was enough to set the world on a permanent tilt. Nothing, he knew, would ever be the same. 

*

From Mabel, Will learned that Eliza had given birth to a baby girl, and she was to be called Jane. Will so desperately wanted to call his sister, to congratulate her, to find out if she were okay, but he knew he couldn't, for that meant calling his parents' house. He refused to speak to his mother, out of equal parts stubbornness and guilt. Mabel had told Will that his mother was sorry for shouting at him, and hoped he would forgive her. But from the way she looked away as she said it, he was sure she had told his mother the same of him, and that neither of those statements were really true. 

*

By Wednesday, Will had resolved within himself that he would probably never see Blake again. Surely, with the birth of baby Jane, there would be little reason for his sister to stay with their parents. He figured that it would be a few weeks at most before she left and he would be summoned back, to sweat away the rest of his summer doing the exact same things he always did. As long as he was careful when he left Mabel's, he saw no reason for his path to ever cross with Blake's again. 

He tried to convince himself that he was pleased about this. 

He spent most of the day doing the same things he'd done for the rest of the week; reading those same few lines of his book, listening to his radio until a song that reminded him of Blake came on (which left him with very little music indeed), and purposely forgetting that it was Blake's birthday tomorrow. All in all, he told himself that he was content, for the most part, and that any other feeling was the result of being out in the sun for too long - despite having not left the house since Sunday. Somehow, this seemed to work. 

Around midafternoon, Mabel called Will down from his room. She was sitting at the kitchen table, making adjustments to a dress for the daughter of her neighbour, Mr Erinmore. Will watched her for a few moments, the way the movement seemed second nature to her, as if she barely had to think about it. 

"Will," she said, not glancing up, "Can you take this washing upstairs please?" She nodded towards a basket of dry linen sheets. "You can just put it on my bed if you want, I'll sort it later. I just want it taking up before I start cooking, so the smell of the food doesn't cling to it." 

"Alright," he shrugged, picking up the basket and heading upstairs. 

It was only when he reached Mabel's bedroom door that he realised he hadn't been in there for years. Not since he was a child, crying for his parents in the night. He took a deep breath before he entered, reminding himself that Mabel had told him to go in, that it wasn't a violation of privacy. Still, he felt suddenly nervous as he turned the door handle. 

Inside, the curtains were still closed, leaving the room shadowy and dark. Clothes were strewn over the floor, hanging out of draws, draped over other pieces of furniture, and with a jolt Will remembered Blake's own room. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to wonder if Blake had maintained his attempts at tidiness, or if the room was as messy as it had been when Will first visited. 

He picked his way through the clothes as if walking through a minefield. When he reached Mabel's bed, neatly made despite the surrounding chaos, he placed the basket atop the sheets, moving to quickly leave again. But as he turned, a framed photograph on Mabel's bedside caught his eye. He stepped closer, almost tripping over a shoe as he did so, and picked it up to get a closer look. 

The picture, black and white, showed two women, holding hands and smiling fondly at each other. One of the women - his aunt, Will realised - was wearing a long white dress, not quite a wedding gown but certainly an imitation of one. The other woman wore a man's suit, dark jacket, dark tie, white shirt. Although there was no colour in the image, Will could see the happy blush on both of their faces, tickled pink with joy. It was a wedding photo, he realised, heat rushing to his head. Or, at least, an approximation of one. 

Blood crashing in his ears, he sat down on the edge of Mabel's bed, as the realisation washed over him again and again. He felt faint. His aunt was a _lesbian._

He held the photo frame in shaking hands, trying to understand what it all meant. Was this what his mother had meant when she'd said Mabel was ill? Where was the other woman now? Why had no one told him? 

A floorboard creaked from the doorway, and his head snapped up, heart racing, to find Mabel stood there, looking at him with an unreadable expression on her face. 

"Auntie," I started, his voice coming out as more of a gasp. He went to stand, but his legs were unsteady, and he fell back onto the edge of the bed. "I wasn't- I didn't-" he stammered, all too aware of the picture still in his hands. 

She sighed and walked over to him, taking a seat on the bed beside him. She held out her hand for the picture, and Will handed it back to her without a word. For a while, she just looked at the photo, a melancholic glint in her eye. Will watched her, wondering if she was going to shout at him. 

Eventually, she turned to him with a sad smile. "Her name," she said quietly, "Was Sandra." She looked back at the photo and stroked a thumb over Sandra's smiling face. "We met a few years ago," she sniffed, "We were in love." 

Will said nothing. One hundred questions swarmed his head, but he didn't dare ask a single one. He waited for Mabel to continue. 

"She was so beautiful, and funny, and charming. She understood me in a way no one else ever had before. She asked me to marry her six months after we met," her voice wobbled, "Of course we couldn't get _properly_ married, that's not for people like us." 

Will's heart jumped at the word "us", and he wondered if Mabel was talking about herself and Sandra, or if somehow she knew about him too. 

"But we had our own ceremony in the garden, with just a few friends. And I called her my wife, there, under the wisteria tree."

Will nodded, mouth dry. "What happened to her?" he asked, wanting to meet this amazing woman, wondering why she wasn't here, with Mabel, if they were so desperately in love. 

Mabel turned the picture over in her hands before speaking, her voice low and hard. "She died." 

And Will felt as if he'd missed a step on the stairs. "I- Auntie, I'm sorry-" 

"Will," she cut him off, looking at him with gleaming eyes, "When you find something good, it is up to you to hold onto it." 

He nodded, trying to comprehend what she was saying through the fog of everything he'd learned. A few things started to make sense as he laid them out in his mind; why his family hadn't visited Mabel for several years, why Mabel kept herself so isolated, perhaps why it seemed that people were afraid of her. 

She had loved, and she had lost, and isn't that just how the story tends to go? 

They sat in silence for a long time, drinking in each other's quiet company. At some point, Will took the picture from his aunt's hands and placed it back on the bedside. He rubbed a thumb over Mabel and Sandra's joined hands. Then he took his aunt's hand in his own, and squeezed it tight. 

*

Later, she took him to the churchyard where Sandra was buried. She didn't explain how Sandra had died, and Will didn't ask. For a while, they stood at her headstone, and Will read the curved writing in the stone over and over again. 

_Sandra Thompson_

_An angel on earth, returned home through the grace of the Lord._

_23rd March 1927 - 6th May 1967_

He whispered, "I'm sorry," to Mabel, but she didn't respond, barely even acknowledging his presence. He wondered if a connection still ran between them, that she might be feeling a strong pull to her dead wife, even if she would find her lover cold and vacant. The thought made him feel a little ill. 

"I should've brought flowers," his aunt murmured absently, gazing at the bare space next to Sandra's grave, "Something yellow. She liked yellow." 

They were making their way out of the graveyard again, meandering slowly between the graves, when Will was struck by a sudden thought. 

"Mabel," he asked quietly, "Is… Is Mr Blake buried here? Tom's father?" 

"Yes, I think so," she nodded, "Somewhere over there," she pointed to a small collection of gravestones in the middle, before continuing on towards the gate. 

Will rushed to the area that she'd pointed, scanning each gravestone for the name "Blake". He found it and stopped still, a shiver running down his back. 

_David Matthew Blake_

_A loving husband, and a loving father. He will be forever missed._

_13th December 1919 - 25th July 1956_

He read that last date, once, twice. Blake's birthday. Tomorrow. 

The sun appeared, glorious and gold, from behind a cloud, bathing him in sudden warmth. At once, he remembered Mabel's words, _"When you find something good, it is up to you to hold onto it,"_ and that part of his book: _'Love him and let him love you. Do you think anything else under heaven really matters?'_ He thought of the broken plates, and of Blake's number in his pocket. He remembered just listening to Blake breathe on the phone, and he remembered the way Blake had shown him how to pick cherries. _25th July,_ he read again, and all of a sudden, he knew what he must do. 

He ran to catch up with Mabel, anticipation flooding his veins. 

"I'm gay," he blurted as they fell into step. It was the first time he'd ever spoken it aloud, and just saying the words seemed to dislodge something heavy from his chest. 

At these words, Mabel appeared to slip out of her melancholic reverie, and she turned to him with a proud smile. "So you are." 

And that was that. 

Filled to the brim with dizzying adrenaline, Will headed straight for the living room when they arrived back home, scanning the books on Mabel's bookshelves. When he found the one he was looking for, he yanked it off the shelf and took it to the hall where Mabel was taking off her boots. 

"Can I have this?" he panted, suddenly aware that he was out of breath, "I'll replace it, I promise." 

She narrowed her eyes and gave him a wry smile. "I suppose," she said, "As long as you tell me what you're up to later." 

He just nodded his agreement, before running up stairs to his bedroom. On a spare sheet of paper, he drafted out a note, crossing out and rewriting for what felt like hours. When he was happy with it - or happy _enough_ \- he copied it out onto the front page of the book. He leafed through the pages several times, scanning each word, and marking several, before shutting the book. 

"I'm going out," he called to Mabel as he hurried down the stairs, book tucked under his arm. 

"Be good!" was all she replied, as if she knew exactly where he was going. 

He didn't hesitate for the entire journey, focusing only on the rhythm of his footsteps, and where he wanted to be. Getting there was all that mattered. 

It was only as he clambered over the Blakes' gate that he realised he had no idea what he was going to say. He approached the front door slowly, knocked once, timidly, then louder a second time. No one answered for a long while, and he wondered if they were all out - it was market day, after all. 

Then Blake opened the door. 

"Scho?" he frowned, baffled by Will's sudden appearance. In the afternoon light, he looked so beautiful, Will wanted to kiss him. 

He didn't. 

Instead he held out the book, with a "Happy birthday," and an earnest face. 

Blake glanced between Will and the book he was holding as if he were insane. Will supposed that he might be at this point. Driven mad by the feverish heat of summer and his burning desire for Blake.

"A _dictionary?"_ Blake asked, disbelief dripping from his voice. 

Will bit back a laugh. "Yes." 

"Scho, what the _fuck_ would I need a dictionary for? Why've you given me a bloody-" 

"Just open it," Will said, thrusting the dictionary into his hands, before folding his own behind his back. 

Still looking confused, Blake opened the cover of the book, and read over the words that Will had written there:

_Dear Tom,_

_I'm sorry for running away when you told me what you wanted. The truth is that I care so much for you, that I'm afraid I would never forgive myself if I ever brought you harm. However, I have realised that I must hold onto the good things that I find, and that you are, by far, the best thing God has granted me. What I'm trying to say is that if you still want me, then I am all yours. But I understand if you've changed your mind._

_— William Schofield (Scho)_

Blake seemed to reread it several times, as if he were unable to believe the words written on the page. Will tried to stand still, though every muscle in his body was trembling with the simultaneous urge to run to Blake, and to run away from Blake. His stomach fluttered nervously as Blake surveyed the outline of Will's own bloody heart, barely beating on the paper before him. 

When he at last glanced up at Will, his eyes were wide and unreadable. 

"I think you'd better come inside," Tom murmured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're wondering about the book will's reading, it's a novel about homosexuality, written in 1956! it's very interesting, id recommend it to anyone
> 
> hope you enjoyed once again! compliments/insults are always welcome


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!
> 
> i forgot to mention it in the notes for the last chapter, but this rlly is the turning point in the story, where will, after spending the last 7 chapters following tom, takes his own initiative and leads himself (a bit like in the film after tom, y'know)
> 
> this chapter is the shortest one yet but i really like it. i was originally gonna have more happen but i think it works as it is
> 
> ive changed the rating to mature bc it starts to get more suggestive from here on out ;) 
> 
> hope you enjoy

As soon as the door was shut behind them, Tom's fingers curled into Will's shirt, backing him up against the wall, dictionary forgotten on the floor. His lips crashed against Will's, waves against a rock, before Will had the chance to register what was happening. He kissed hungry and desperate, like a parched man brought to water, and it was all Will could do to keep up. He hooked his fingers around Tom's belt loops and tugged his hips closer. He wanted him closer, closer than close, their bodies pressed together until they merged into one - Plato's soulmates. Their teeth clicked, and heat flooded Will's entire body; he'd never felt more sinful in his entire life. 

"Glad you've come to your senses," Tom mumbled into his mouth, "Dozy git."

Will huffed a laugh against Tom's lips, searching for something funny to say. When he came up with nothing, he just bit Tom's lip, relishing in the quiet whimper it drew out. 

One of Will's hands moved to splay against the small of Tom's back, the other gripping at the shirt between Tom's shoulder blades. Tom slid both of his hands up to Will's shoulders, then up his neck, and finally cupping his jaw. He situated a leg between Will's thighs, and Will let out a short hiss at the sudden friction there. 

At this, Tom laughed, and disentangled their mouths. 

"Y'know, it's not my birthday 'til tomorrow," he grinned. His tone was light and jovial, but he was gazing at Will with an incredulity Will had never seen before. As if he couldn't believe his eyes. 

"I know," Will said softly, moving his hands to rest at Tom's sides, "But I think I kept you waiting long enough." 

When Tom kissed him again, it was slow and tender. Their mouths found each other over and over, and Will found each kiss more dizzying than the last. Tom's palms pressed flat against Will's chest now, and he wondered if Tom could feel his heart racing, could feel the fluttering of butterfly wings under his skin, could feel every ache and grievance spilling out of him onto the floor. 

And then Tom's fingers were gripped in his shirt again, pulling him away from the wall, and leading him slowly into the living room. Tom only broke contact to flop backwards onto the sofa, leaning his head back to fully expose his throat, lips parted as he tried to catch his breath, gazing up at Will through his eyelashes, eyes dark with want - and if this wasn't the most inviting sight Will had ever seen. Feeling like a starved man at a feast, Will climbed onto Tom's lap, knees bracketing his thighs, running his hands over Tom's chest, down to his stomach which jumped back in surprise under his fingers, and back up to his shoulders. 

Almost disbelieving, unable to comprehend that he was allowed to  _ touch,  _ he brought one hand up to cup Tom's face. Tentatively, he brought his thumb to Tom's mouth and stroked over his lower lip. It was hot, and wet, and smooth, and Will shivered. Tom's tongue darted out to meet his thumb, only briefly, and Will was unable to swallow back his gasp. Pressing his own lips together, he pushed his thumb slowly into Tom's mouth, until Tom caught a gentle hold of it between his teeth. Will inhaled sharply, a shiver running through every nerve in his body. When he caught Tom's eye, he looked wolfish and wild. 

He slipped his thumb out again, and leant down to capture Tom's mouth again. Tom's hands were grasping at the back of his shirt now, pulling him closer, closer,  _ closer.  _

"Will," he breathed, as Will moved to press kisses along his jaw.  _ "Will,"  _ he hissed, mouth falling open when Will's lips moved to his neck. The skin there was soft and smooth, and Will resisted the urge to bite down, and see what sounds Tom might make. 

Behind him, Tom rucked up the back of his shirt, exposing the small of his back, before grasping at the skin with his hands. His touch felt electric, doubled by the cooler press of his rings, each point of contact tingling and making Will squirm. 

"Tom," he gasped into Tom's neck as he lightly dug his fingernails into Will's flesh, "Fuck-" 

The front door opened with a loud click. 

_ "Shit,"  _ Tom hissed, as Will sprang out of his lap. They both stood, tense. 

"Hello? You about Tom?" Mrs Blake called from the hall, as Will shared a worried glance with Tom. 

Tom looked roughed up, hair a mess, shirt crumpled awkwardly, lips shining with saliva; Will didn't imagine he looked much better. 

"Yeah-" Tom coughed, his voice coming out as little more than a croak, "Yes Mum. 

Will ran a hand through his hair, and realised that he was still wearing his shoes. 

Myrtle trotted into the room, claws clicking against the floor, and barked happily when she saw Will. He wondered if she could hear his heart racing. 

"Tom, why's there a dictionary on the floor?" Mrs Blake called as she locked the front door behind her. 

Tom and Will shared another wide-eyed glance, each envisioning what might happen if Mrs Blake were to pick it up and open it. Shoving past, Tom raced to the hall, Will following a little slower behind. 

"That's mine, I dropped it," he told his mother, bending to snatch it up before she could. He pressed it flat against his chest, crossing his arms over, and Will had to bite back a nervous laugh. 

"Right," Mrs Blake sounded unconvinced. She frowned at the dictionary as she looked a little closer, "Y'know, I don't recognise it. How long've you 'ad that?" 

"Will brought it over," Tom smiled, "Birthday present." 

"Oh, Will's here?" Mrs Blake brightened, glancing up to spot Will hovering in the doorway, "Hello love!" she beamed, dictionary forgotten, "Feels like forever since you've been 'round, everythin' alright?" 

"Yes, thank you Mrs Blake," he smiled politely, trying to keep his gaze from slipping over to Tom's, "I've just been busy, unfortunately." 

"Oh, haven't we all?" she sighed, "Well, it's lovely to see you now. Will you be stayin' for dinner?" 

"Oh, no, I couldn't-" 

"He will, Mum," Tom interrupted, throwing a slight smirk in Will's direction, "He'll be here for dinner." 

"Good," she smiled, before leaving them to boil the kettle. 

For a few moments, Will and Tom stood, just looking at each other. Even being near Tom made Will feel like he'd swallowed a sunrise, unable to stop grinning across the hall. Tom beamed back - and it was different to the way he usually smiled at Will; normally there was a restrained affection, something reigned in. But now he shone with an unconstrained adoration. Like a dam had broken and he could no longer hold it all back. Will wondered if he was mirroring Tom's grin, in all its oozing affection. 

"Shall we go to my room?" Tom asked, his voice level, but his eyebrow quirking suggestively. 

Will couldn't help the laugh, a bubble of excitement and nerves, that spilled from his throat. "Okay," he said, kicking off his shoes and following Tom through the house. 

As they reached the bedroom door, Tom cast a glance around, as if his mum could be hiding nearby, before pulling Will in for another searing kiss, dictionary pressed flat between both of their chests. 

Maintaining half of his sense of danger, Will pulled away, with a whispered,  _ "Blake,"  _ and a warning hand on his shoulder. 

"What, we're fine-" 

"Just, wait until we're in your room, please," Will sighed, a frown creasing his forehead. 

A sudden sense of dread had swarmed his gut, displacing every happy butterfly with an anxious, skittering rat. 

"Alright," Tom shrugged, opening the door. He made a sweeping gesture, indicating for Will to enter first. 

Will stepped inside, Tom following closely behind him and closing the door. 

"Right, where were we?" Tom grinned, tossing the book onto his bed and stepping closer to Will. 

"Blake," Will turned away, looking towards the plate that still sat on Tom's bedside. He noticed it was filled with ash and cigarette butts, as if all Blake had done for the past week was sit here and smoke. 

Tom's face fell at Will's change in demeanour. "What?" He was quiet, already retreating back into himself. 

Will perched on the edge of Tom's bed, looking up at him. "We need to be careful," he said quietly. 

Tom rolled his eyes, and shifted his gaze to the window. 

"No, we  _ do,"  _ Will insisted, his voice shaking slightly, "No one can know, alright? It- It has to be a secret." 

"I know," Tom muttered, crossing his arms, "I'm not thick."

"I know you're not," Will said softly, gazing at the embarrassed blush that had now tinted Tom's cheeks, "I just-" He ran a nervous hand through his hair, "If anything bad happens to you- because of me, I-" 

"It won't," Tom assured him, uncrossing his arms again and stepping forward to hold one of Will's hands in both of his, "I promise." 

He smiled down at Will with that same honesty Will thought he reserved for God, and the spidery fear began to dissipate. 

"Okay," Will let himself smile bad, before bringing Tom's hands to his mouth and planting a kiss on the back of each. 

With a grin, Tom joined him on the bed, lying back and finding himself on top of the dictionary. He dug the book out from underneath his back and looked at it again, with a confused frown but amused smirk. 

"Why a dictionary?" he asked, "Somethin' wrong with my vocabulary?" 

With a laugh, Will shuffled further onto the bed and swivelled to face Tom, legs crossed. "No, I think your vocabulary's excellent." 

The corner of Tom's mouth quirked up slightly. "Okay, so why a dictionary? Why not, I dunno, the poems of Walt fuckin' Whitman?" 

Will laughed again, bringing a hand up to his embarrassed face. "Just… open it. Flick through a few pages." 

Eyes narrowed in mock suspicion, Tom opened the dictionary at a random page and began to leaf through. Then he stopped and frowned. "Why's 'beautiful' circled?" 

Feeling heat rush to his face, Will dropped his eyes to Tom's bedsheet, focusing on a single patch of his quilt. "I- I'm not good with words," he stammered, "But I- I wanted to tell you… What I feel. And I- God, it sounds so stupid now I say it out loud. I went through the dictionary and… Well, I circled all the words that I would use to describe you. So you'd, y'know. Know."

He could hear the beat of his heart, loud and oppressive in his ears, and he waited for Tom to laugh. When he didn't, Will finally, hesitantly looked up, to find Tom, flicking through the dictionary, and, every so often, glancing at Will with a fresh sheen of affection over his eyes. Will watched him for a while, Tom's expression unchanging as he turned through several pages. Eventually, Tom shut the book with a loud thud and tossed it to the side. 

The way he was staring at Will made him feel exposed, turned inside out. Will suddenly had the sickening thought that maybe this didn't mean the same to Tom as it meant to him. Maybe he'd got it all wrong, and Blake just wanted… the physicality of it. They were friends, of course, but perhaps Blake had wanted just a little extra, instead of the lot that Will was offering. Just something to tide him over before Will left for home - left for good. 

"I- I hope I haven't overstepped," Will muttered, dropping his gaze again to his hands where he was knotting and reknotting his fingers, "I'm not sure- I mean, I wasn't sure if this,  _ this,"  _ he gestured briefly between the two of them, "If you-" he sighed in exasperation, frustrated that he couldn't find the right words, "I think I've made it clear what I feel for you.  _ How much  _ I feel for you. But if- if you don't feel the same, that's, that's  _ fine.  _ And I'll apologise, if I've, y'know, made you feel uncomfortable. Just," he rubbed a hand across the creases of his forehead, "Tell me." 

Tom was quiet for a few moments, perhaps processing everything Will had struggled to say. Searching for an answer. 

"'ve never met anyone like you before," he said softly. 

Will glanced up at him and found that his expression had shifted from deep and boundless to soft, almost tired. 

"You mean… Like a poof?" he asked. 

"No," Tom replied quickly, "Well, I mean,  _ yeah, _ alright. But… That's not what I meant." 

"Oh," was all Will could think to say. 

Tom hummed, looking over at the plate on his bedside and running his thumb over the edge. Again and again, he'd stop at the place where the new fragment joined the old, touching that section slightly longer than the rest. Then in a small voice, he said, "'S stupid, but you're the first person I've kissed."

Will's heart jumped in his chest. "Oh," he said again. 

Tom sighed, not looking at him. "I think you're beautiful too."

"Yeah?" Will breathed, feeling as if all the air had been stolen from the room. 

With a small smile, Tom caught his eye, blue and sparkling. "Yeah," he said softly, and Will suddenly felt as if he might float away. 

*

Mrs Blake had cooked steak and kidney pie for dinner, giving Will a slightly bigger slice than everyone else.

Tom and Will had whiled away the rest of the afternoon lying side by side on Tom's bed with their shoulders pressed firmly together. They listened to some of Tom's records again, Will not complaining once - even when he put The Monkees on. Several times, most of the time, Will thought about kissing Tom, and his heart would race. It doubled every time he remembered that he  _ could  _ kiss Tom, and tripled each time he caught Tom looking at him like he wanted to kiss him too, just as bad. 

Instead of kissing, they laced their fingers together, then unlaced them, choosing to explore each other's hands with their fingertips. Will traced each line of Tom's palm, and smoothed over each of his knuckles, while Tom smoked and grinned. After he'd passed the cigarette over to Will, he'd placed the heel of his hand against Will's, and pressed their palms together. The difference in the size of their hands made them both chuckle, before slipping their fingers together again.

Before dinner, Will had called his aunt, informing her that he wouldn't be back home for dinner. When he'd told her where he was, she'd just laughed knowing and told him to have a good time. 

"So Will," Mrs Blake cut into her pie, "Anythin' excited happen since we last saw ya? Oh, that reminds me, I saw you on Sunday at the church! I was gonna say hello after the service, but I look away one second and you've disappeared."

"Oh, I must've missed you," he looked down at his plate, feeling guilty, "I was in a bit of a hurry, I wanted to get back in case my mother called," a lie, of course, "My sister's baby was due-"

"I didn't even know your sister was pregnant!" Mrs Blake exclaimed dramatically.

"Yes you did, Mum, I _ told _ you," Tom interrupted. 

"Did ya?" she frowned, "Musta slipped my mind. Anyway, go on Will. Your sister 'ave her little'un?" 

"Uh, yes. Sunday afternoon. A girl, called Jane." 

"Oh, how lovely," she cooed, "Isn't it? Tom? Joe?"

"Yeah, 's'great," Joe smiled before shovelling a fork full of potato into his mouth. 

Tom just nodded, mouth full. Under the table, he hooked his ankle around Will's. The pair shared a soft, private smile. 

"Well, send her our love," Mrs Blake smiled. 

"I will," he promised, although he knew Eliza would have no idea who the Blakes were. 

After dinner, Tom suggested they all have a drink, in honour of baby Jane. Mrs Blake had slightly smacked him on the arm and rolled her eyes. 

"We can have a drink tomorrow, Tommy," she said sternly, "With your birthday tea," her head snapped in Will's direction, as if suddenly remembering, "Will you be joinin' us, Will, my dear?" she asked, smiling warmly now. 

"Oh, I'm not sure," Will frowned, a heavy feeling settling in his stomach at the thought of taking advantage of the Blakes' hospitality two nights in a row. 

"Oh,  _ please _ Will," Tom practically bounced up and down like an excited puppy, "You could bring Mabel too, couldn't he Mum?" 

A brief flicker of doubt passed over Mrs Blake's face, while Joe settled into a decisive frown. "Well, I don't see why not," she said with a tight smile, "The more, the merrier!" 

"I- I'll ask her," Will promised, nodding at Tom and relishing in the bright grin he received in return. 

"Lovely," Mrs Blake turned to the sink where she was washing up, and shot Joe a warning glare when he opened his mouth to protest.

An anxious ache settled itself between Will's joints as he wondered what might happen if Mabel said yes. In truth, he was counting on her saying no, hoping to avoid any kind of awkwardness that might arise from the sudden collision of Will's two worlds. He'd cultivated a space for himself in two separate ways out here - one place with his aunt, and one place with Tom's family - and wasn't particularly keen on the idea of them overlapping. Nevermind that Mabel and the Blakes had coexisted in this village for years prior to Will's arrival; he just wanted his two settings to remain separate. 

Still, he wondered, there was a chance she would agree. He pushed away the sense of dread that set in his stomach. 

"C'mon Will, let's go back to my room," Tom said, apparently oblivious to Will's newfound internal dilemma. 

It was tempting - Tom's records, Tom's cigarettes, Tom's bed,  _ Tom.  _ But Will already felt that he'd overstayed his welcome, and the mood in the kitchen had soured a little at the mention of Mabel. 

"Actually," he mumbled, "I should probably be getting home." 

"Already?" Tom pouted, shoulders slumping in disappointment. 

"Yeah, I- I have some things I need to do." 

"Alright, I'll walk you home," Tom shrugged, and Will smiled gently at the thought. 

"Oh, Tommy, he knows his way back by now," Mrs Blake chided, "Leave the poor lad alone." 

"No, no, I," Will allowed the smile on his face to grow, "I'd like that." 

Mrs Blake clicked her tongue. "You two," she shook her head in mock despair, "You'd think you were made of…  _ magnets _ or somethin'." 

They donned their shoes and headed out into the cool night air. Already it seemed like several lifetimes had passed since Will had climbed over the gate and knocked tentatively at the door. He certainly felt older, aged in a good way. As they reached the gate, Tom went to climb over first, as he so often did. Will stopped him with a hand on his arm. 

"Age before beauty," he said softly, before climbing over himself. 

Tom laughed, sending a warm, pleased shiver up Will's spine. He followed Will, landing in front of him, and reaching up to kiss him quickly under cover of darkness. 

They began to wander slowly up the road, like young lovers trying to stretch out time so they could walk with each other into forever. Well, Will supposed as the back of his hand grazed Tom's, that's exactly what they were. 

"So yer definitely comin' tomorrow?" Tom asked, slipping his palm into Will's and squeezing his fingers. 

"Definitely," Will squeezed back, feeling ten times more youthful at Tom's simple touch. He glanced sideways at Tom, half able to make out the slope of his nose, the line of his jaw. "Did you get that stuff from Cooke? Like you wanted to?" 

Even in the vague light, he could see the white of Blake's pleased grin. "Yeah, I did. Pre-rolled an' everythin'." 

Will hummed a laugh. "Still wanna do it then?" 

"Course," Blake scoffed, "Make sure you're at mine for twelve." 

Will made a mental note to be there for half eleven. 

As they approached the village, housing becoming more dense, they untangled their hands. At the last second, just before Tom pulled his hand away all together, Will reached out and hooked their pinky fingers together. Tom giggled, and swung their arms slightly between them. 

"I missed you," he said, barely louder than a whisper, as they approached the village green. 

A mix of sour guilt and honey-sweet relief flooded Will's brain. 

"I missed you too," he replied, looking at Tom's profile in the gentle orange touch of the street lamp. 

Neither of them said much else until they reached the front path of Mabel's cottage. They unlinked their little fingers and turned to face each other. 

"This is where I kiss you goodnight," Tom joked, although there was a melancholic tinge to his voice; they both knew that he couldn't. Not if they were being careful. 

"This is where I hit you with my handbag and say, 'Men are only after one thing'!" Will teased, trying to lighten both of their moods. 

Tom chuckled softly, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the ground. "I don't wanna go," he admitted with a shrug. 

"I know," Will smiled sadly. He didn't want Tom to leave either. He wanted to stop all the clocks, halt the moon in the sky, keep them safe in this moment forever. If it were possible, he'd find a way, he vowed to himself. 

"Should I call you later, when you're home?" he asked. 

Tom reached out a careful hand and lightly brushed at a piece of hair on Will's forehead. "Yes please," he murmured, before his eyes lit up with an idea, "We could stay on the phone 'til midnight!" he exclaimed, suddenly excited, "You could be the first person I talk to on my birthday!" 

Will laughed at Tom's childish excitement. "Alright," he said, "But if you fall asleep on the phone, I'll just hang up on you." 

And later, when he heard Tom's breathing slow on the other side of the call, not long before midnight, Will just sat and listened for a while. Despite the distance between them, he felt as close to Tom as ever. Comfort bloomed in his chest. 

As the clock struck twelve, he spoke gently into the receiver, "Tom? Tom? Wake up!" 

"Uh?" 

"Happy birthday." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed
> 
> making the switch from "blake" to "tom" in this chapter was quite difficult, after referring to him as blake for 42k words. but i think i caught any accidental blakes, meaning that every blake you see is intentional
> 
> i just wanna say thank you again for all your lovely comments - they really make this fic worth writing <3
> 
> hope you're all well, and staying safe!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, hope every one is doing well! these are awful times we're living in, so i hope everyone's staying safe, while still getting as involved as they can in the blm movement <3
> 
> i was wondering whether it was wise to post this chapter on the first day of pride month, for reasons ill explain shortly. in the end, i decided that no matter day i posted it, i would feel guilty, and that i might as well post it anyway. 
> 
> warnings in this chapter for recreational drug use (weed), and discussion of homophobic hate crime, and death

"So. Is Mabel comin' for tea?" Tom asked as he led Will through the cherry orchard, towards a small turnstile at the back of the Blakes' property. He was carrying a wicker basket of sandwiches his mother had made, granting himself and Will several hours' disappearance under the guise of a birthday picnic. In the pocket of his jacket, Will spotted a joint, a fracture in the perfect image. A promise of something else. 

"Uh, I think so," Will frowned, trying to match Tom's pace as he dodged through the trees.

He'd asked his aunt the night before if she wanted to come, and she'd given him a vague answer about needing to check what food they had in the cupboards. He guiltily hoped that this meant no. But when he'd asked her again before he left, she'd asked what time they'd be eating, and whether the Blakes liked white wine. With a slight grimace, and more self resentment at the disappointment her answer had given him, he promised to stop by before the dinner, so that they could walk up together. 

"Good," Tom threw him a grin over his shoulder, "I like Mabel." 

"She likes you." 

They stopped at the turnstile, and Tom handed Will the picnic basket.

"No, I mean I  _ really  _ like her. In fact," he paused theatrically and brought a dramatic hand to his forehead, "I think I fancy her." 

"Oh, piss  _ off,"  _ Will shoved at his shoulder with his free hand, smiling in spite of himself. 

He quickly climbed over the turnstile with a laugh, before holding out his hand for Will to pass the basket over. As he was so accustomed, Will followed Tom over, chuckling nervously as he wobbled. When he stepped onto solid ground, Tom moved to slip their fingers together. The heat of his hand, combined with the scorch of the sun, and the burning gaze of any potential onlooker, felt like a scalding brand, and Will yanked his hand back. 

"Tom," he hissed as a warning. 

"S'not like anyone can see us," Tom muttered, but withdrew his hand all the same. 

They wandered up a slight incline, towards an ocean of yellow flowers that reached up to their knees. It seemed a little like something out of a painting, conjured up by the likes of Monet, or Van Gogh. Or perhaps it was a fairy tale: a field of gold that stretched for miles outside Rapunzel's window - beautiful and always out of reach. 

"This is my favourite place in the world, I reckon," Tom announced as they brushed through a few flowers around the edge. 

"Yeah?" Will raised his eyebrows, "Why haven't you shown me it before?" 

Tom gave him a half smile, laced with a mix of affection and slight sadness. "Wan'ed to save it for somethin' special." 

They walked quietly for a few moments, before Will said, "There's so much of it." 

It was a strange thing to say, he realised as soon as the words left his mouth. He wasn't even sure what he meant by it. The words had just stirred in his gut, and forced themselves out of his mouth, before he even had the chance to wonder where it really came from. 

"So much of what?" Tom looked at him, shielding his eyes from the sun with his palm. 

"I-" Will searched for the words, the errant thought that had escaped from his mouth, trying to find the root of it. So much of what indeed? So much field, spreading out into the horizon? So much sunlight that he felt he was going to burn alive? So much…  _ feeling,  _ of whatever it truly was he felt for Tom, for he'd been too scared to christen it, and give it a name, lest it become tangible and heavy and so much-

"So much  _ everything,"  _ he shrugged. He reached out an arm and traced the horizon with the tips of his fingers, "It's just. It's like it doesn't end."

"Well it doesn't," Tom smiled from under his palm, "It just keeps goin', all the way 'round, 'til we end up back here." 

"I suppose," Will shoved his hands into his pockets. 

They approached the shade of a tree, standing lazily at the edge of the field. Tom flopped onto the grass and lay back, as if he'd been walking all day. Will sat down facing him, back against the tree trunk. 

"D'ya think we'd always end up back in the same place?" he asked, frowning a little, "If we just kept walking, I mean."

At this, Tom lifted his head and stared at Will, at his crossed legs, at his fingers fidgeting in the grass. "Yeah," he said softly, "You an' me? I think we're always gonna end up back 'ere. Eventually." 

Feeling a stutter in his chest, Will hummed in agreement, nodded, and Tom's head dropped back onto the grass. 

"Have you had a good birthday so far?" Will surprised himself by redirecting the conversation, initiating it himself. He supposed that, enough time around Tom Blake and he started to rub off on you. 

Tom let out a throaty chuckle, eyes closed, hands tucked behind his head. The picture of idle content. "Yeah, Mum woke me up with a boiled egg that had a candle stuck in it." 

"An  _ egg?"  _ Will laughed, picturing Mrs Blake standing over Tom's bed with a plate, trying to balance a single boiled egg with a birthday candle planted in it like a flagpole, "Just one egg?" 

Tom opened an eye to glance at him, cheeks rounded in a grin, "Yeah, just one egg. Bloody mental."

"Did you blow out the candle and make a wish?" Will teased, immediately finding himself wondering what Tom might wish for. 

"Well that's the thing!" Tom sat up now, invested in telling his story, "The candle wasn't even lit, was it! It was just… there. Standin' up straight, like a mornin' stiffy." 

Will pressed his lips together, trying to hold back a laugh, but as soon as he caught Tom's eye, the pair were doubled over, laughing into eternity at the image of a birthday egg, an unlit candle, an unwanted erection. 

As they began to calm again, Blake reached into his pocket and drew a single joint. He held it up between them like one might hold a caterpillar he'd found on the ground - studying it. Revering it. 

"Well," Tom said, eyes flashing with youthful excitement, "Happy fuckin' birthday to me, ey?" 

He placed the joint between his lips, and reached into his other pocket for his lighter. Trembling with what Will thought was a cocktail of nerves and excitement, he tried to light the joint. But he was shaking too much, the lighter wouldn't click. 

"Here," Will took the lighter from him, and lit the joint with two clicks. 

"Thanks." 

Tom held the smouldering joint in his lips for a few seconds, before taking a first, slow drag. 

"Hold it in for a bit," Will found himself instructing. 

Tom did as he was told, holding his breath, drawn up to his full height as if the smoke were filling every inch of his torso. Then he exhaled, his shoulders slumping as the smoke washed over Will's face. 

"Well?" Will raised an eyebrow with a smile. 

Tom wasn't coughing and spluttering, so he was already doing better than Will had on his first try. Will thought back on it briefly; sixteen and dizzyingly stupid, in a smokey room, somewhere he couldn't remember, with people whose faces shifted constantly in his mind's eye. Sometimes they were friends, and other times they were strangers, and Will was never sure which version was the truth. Either way, he was glad that this was Tom's first try, that he was here with Will. 

"Yeah," was all Tom said, enthusiastic as he went in for a second drag. 

Will sniffed a laugh, already taking in the familiar scent. He was transported back to all of those nights of girls and boys and drink and pot - and he couldn't tell whether he was happy in those memories or not. All he really knew - all we ever really know, he supposed - was that he was happy in that moment, with Tom. And perhaps that was all that mattered. 

"Your turn," Tom told him, passing the joint like a holy relic, venerated far above the average cigarette. 

Will took a well-practiced puff, keeping the smoke captive for five long seconds in the cavity between his nose and his throat, before tipping his head back and blowing up towards the sky. A pair of small birds darted from a tree branch. He wondered if other animals sought out highs the way humans did. If their lives, too, were a constant battle between necessary pain and hedonistic pleasure. Whether the starling's choices fluctuated between what was  _ right  _ and what was  _ good.  _

He took another lazy drag. 

Did birds hear God in the way that humans wished they could? 

"You're pretty," Tom's gentle voice interrupted his wondering. 

He brought his gaze back to Tom's face, finding tenderness and warmth etched there. 

_ "Pretty?"  _ he frowned, handing the joint back again. 

"Yeah, pretty," Tom smiled a crooked smile. 

_ "I'm  _ not pretty," Will snorted, trying and failing to drag his eyes away from Tom's lips,  _ "Girls _ are pretty." 

Tom narrowed his eyes and took a thoughtful drag. "You  _ would _ make a pretty girl," he gestured ambiguously with the joint.

"Fuck off," Will bit back a grin. 

"Still," Tom briefly dropped his gaze to tap the ash from the end of the joint, before turning his eyes back on Will, full beam, "I prefer ya as you are."

Brain already a little addled by the pot -  _ fuck me, is that stuff strong or have I lost my tolerance?  _ \- Will barely registered that Tom was leaning in until his hot breath ghosted over Will's lips, sweetened by the drug. 

"Blake," Will said stiffly, pulling back and placing a firm hand on Tom's chest. A barrier. 

"No one's gonna see," Tom rolled his eyes, leaning back, "Look around!" he spread his arms, like Will might only see the world if he pointed him to it, "Not a bloody soul!" 

"Blake-" 

"Besides! If anyone  _ does _ see us, we're already fucked!" he held the joint up between them again, "We're already doin' drugs!" Despite his apparent conviction that there was no way anyone might spot them, he whispered the last word, as if there were still a chance that someone might hear them. 

"Tom," Will placed his hands lightly on top of Tom's knees, already feeling himself relax at that simple contact, "I want to… As much as you do. But… We have to be safe."

"I know," Tom deflated, taking a final drag before passing the joint again. 

Will left one hand resting on Tom's knee, feeling the steady presence of the boy in front of him, even as his own head drifted away in a cloud of smoke. 

"You hungry?" Tom reached for the picnic basket and dug out a cheese sandwich. 

"Mm," Will nodded, watching Tom chew at the bread crust. Rather than fish out another sandwich, Tom held his meal in front of Will's mouth, permitting him to take a bite. 

There was something holy about that sandwich, Will decided, as Tom continued eating. He wasn't sure what made it so, whether it was its touching of Tom's lips, the fact that Mrs Blake, creator (in part) of Tom, had made it, or something else entirely. Something like the fall of the sunlight as it pierced through the tree cover, creating dappled leaf patterns on the bread, on the ground, on Tom. Or something like the smoke curling around the end of the joint. Probably the smoke curling around the end of the joint. But who was Will to dictate divine influence? 

"More," Will demanded, opening his mouth like a baby bird. 

Tom obliged him, carefully pushing the bread onto Will's tongue like they were once again taking communion, and wiping away a crumb from the side of Will's mouth with his thumb. 

"How's it supposed to feel?" Tom asked as Will finished off the joint. 

Will had insisted on finishing it because of the way it burned as the last dregs of pot went up in smoke. It felt, he imagined, like the tongue of the devil in his mouth. Like kissing a bare flame. He hated it, the heat licking over his tongue, but it was better him than Tom. 

"What d'you mean?" 

"Like," Tom's eyes were wide, like shining fruits, "What am I meant to feel right now?" 

"From the pot?" Tom nodded as Will stubbed the final embers into the dirt. "Well, happy. Like, like,  _ free,  _ y'know? Like I," he paused to chuckle, despite no one saying anything funny, "I feel like I'm being tickled. But, like, from the  _ inside."  _ He stifled another high pitched giggle behind his hand. 

He always felt stupid when he was high, and stupider still when he  _ behaved  _ like he was high. Sure, it was one thing to feel the effortless pull of a smile, how it made his face muscles tingle. It was another thing entirely to start giggling like a child, perhaps flex his joints to see if the tingle spread there. He wanted to be  _ cool.  _ He wanted Tom to think he was cool. 

"So, like, happy?" Tom asked slowly. 

"Yeah," Will laughed again, unable to stop it shimmying up his ribs and out of his throat, "That's what I said." 

Tom started giggling too, eyes crinkling at the corners. "But like, like  _ really  _ happy?" he asked through his laughter, "And funny inside? Like I've swallowed a bird?" 

"Yeah!" 

"S'funny," Tom was looking at him, still laughing, but his eyes suddenly serious, "That's how you make me feel anyway."

Will stopped laughing then, feeling less like he was being tickled, and more like he was being tied in an endless amount of knots. He looked at Tom's sparkling eyes, faced opened up by joy, and again felt a burning in his mouth. But this heat travelled down his throat and settled painfully in his chest, like a sun hanging in a sky above the thousands of butterflies in his stomach. It was desperation, he thought as it made its bed next to his heart. Yearning. A want to take Tom in his arms and never let go. 

_ Love.  _ Or, if not love, something similar. Love's twin sister, infatuation. The urge to possess, for however brief a moment, something as heavenly as Tom Blake. 

"Shall we have some more sandwiches?" Will reached for the basket and picked out two separate sandwiches; one for Tom, and the other for himself. 

*

They lit up a second time what felt like hours later, although the sun had barely moved in the sky. They were both lying down now, shoulder to shoulder on the grass, talking about nothing particularly important, which, at the time, felt like the most important thing in the world. 

"I'd like a donkey," Tom was saying as he handed the joint to Will, "Think I'd name it Stu." 

As Will listened, he was suddenly struck by what he was sure was the best idea in all of history. He sat up straight, as if hit by a stray bolt of lightning. 

"What?" Tom frowned up at him from where he lay. 

"Stay there," Will smiled at him, before taking a pull of the joint, holding the smoke again in the back of his mouth. 

"Well I wasn't goin' anywhere," Tom scoffed, watching Will curiously. 

Slowly, Will twisted his torso and brought himself down, close to Tom's face, as if he were about to kiss him. In the vague depths of his mind, he knew that this was just as stupid as kissing, that if anyone saw them now, it would look the same. But he hovered above Tom's face like a spectre, noses almost touching. With his free hand, he gently took Tom by the jaw and eased his mouth open. Then he closed his eyes and exhaled, releasing the sweet smoke from his own mouth into the heady heat of Tom's, and Tom instinctively inhaled. For a brief moment, Will thought back to that day in Tom's room, with Tom holding the cigarette to his mouth, and breathing in deeply when Will exhaled, as if trying to recycle his air. 

Still lightly holding Tom's jaw, he sat back up, Tom's gaze dark and heavy on his own face. 

"What was that?" Tom barely whispered, words coming out with a plume of shared smoke. 

"A blowback," Will began to trace Tom's jaw with his fingertips, "Would you wanna… do another one?" 

"Yes," Tom answered immediately, sitting up too. "Please," he tacked on the end. 

"Alright." 

Will moved to bring the joint to his lips again, but at the last second, Tom caught his wrist. 

"Wait," he looked wide eyed and nervous, "Can I..?" 

"Yeah, yeah, sure," Will passed him the joint and watched Tom take a hit. 

With a mouthful of smoke, he edged forward and Will obediently opened his mouth. Tom pushed ever closer, nose buried Will's cheek, before breathing out, blowing into Will's mouth - the taste of pot and sweetness and Tom all mingled into one. As Will inhaled, Tom moved to press their foreheads together, closing his eyes and focusing them both on that point of warm contact. 

"I want us to be the same," he said softly, Will's exhaled smoke ghosting over his face, "I want our insides to match."

He paused and Will swallowed, every muscle in his body tremoring like a taut violin string. 

"I want to share everything with you. I want us to be the same," Tom repeated, barking out a laugh like he could barely believe what he was saying. 

"We're the same," Will reassured him in a whisper. He brought his hand up to the back of Tom's neck. "We're the same."

*

"You both smell awful," Mabel said as she opened the front door. 

She looked nice, Will thought as he stepped inside. She wore a long, pretty dress, one he hadn't seen before, and a smudge of red lipstick. Nothing drastic. Just nice. 

"Do we?" Tom asked anxiously, sniffing at his shoulder. 

"Afraid so," she shrugged, smoothing her skirt. 

"Fuck," Tom muttered, and laughed anyway. 

"Are you sure you still want to come?" Will frowned as Mabel fidgeted with her hair, "Tom won't mind if you say no." 

"Well, I might a bit," Tom smirked. 

Will elbowed him lightly in the ribs. 

"Thank you for your concern boys," she smiled, patting Will lightly on the cheek, "But it's the first invite I've received in a very long time, and it would be truly awful of me to turn it down." 

"Yeah,  _ and _ it's my birthday," Tom grinned, "There's gonna be  _ cake."  _

Mabel gestured to Tom, while raising her eyebrows at Will. "See? There's gonna be cake." 

Will exhaled heavily through his nose, deciding he had to admit defeat. Mabel was coming to dinner at the Blakes', and that was  _ fine.  _ In fact, he told himself, it might even be great. He tried not to think about Mrs Blake's expression when Tom had mentioned Mabel, nor Joe's silenced protests. It was just paranoia. From the weed. Nothing was actually going to go wrong. 

Before they left, Mabel sprayed both of them with her perfume, in order to mask the apparent stench they were carrying with them. Will wasn't sure of the scent, but it reminded him of light and laughter. It smelled a bit like the colour yellow. 

At the door, she took hold of Will's shirt and tried to straighten out any creases, tutting at the various mud stains; Will's face burned with embarrassment, as he felt Tom's laughing eyes watching. It was like Mabel had taken on the role of mother hen, preening and pruning Will as if he were a reflection of herself. It was something Will had experienced often enough with his own mother, clicking her tongue at the folds in his clothes, scowling at the marks. With Mabel, it was a little different; rather than being disciplinary and strict, her adjustments were light and half-hearted, as if she didn't really mind what Will looked like. In a brief, guilty moment, Will wondered again what it would've been like to have a mother like Mabel, instead of his own. 

"Alright," she stopped, brushing at Will's hair one last time before stepping back, surrendering, "What do we think Tom? Acceptable?" 

Will tried to bite back a grin, rolling his eyes as Tom's travelled him up and down. He felt silly, standing there and allowing himself to be studied. But he supposed he'd permit it - it  _ was  _ Tom's birthday, after all. 

"He'll do," was Blake's teasing verdict, earning him a laugh from Mabel, and another nudge in the ribs from Will. 

They left shortly after that, Mabel positioning herself between Tom and Will, so that they flanked her like security guards. As they passed the village green, she held out her elbows, indicating for the two boys to link arms with her. Tom had obliged instantly, and for half a second Will wondered if he really  _ did  _ fancy Mabel. But then he'd shot Will a glance over Mabel's head, and although Will didn't know the name of that look, it translated into affection, belonging. Will mirrored him, slipping his arm through Mabel's, and feeling an instant connection through the three of them. It was like the conduction of electricity, but instead of fizzling, it soothed. It was home, Will thought, the three of them walking together, doused in the same perfume. They were the same. 

"So, how old are you now, Tom?" Mabel smiled at him, as the three of them fell into synchronised footfalls. 

"Nineteen," Tom said proudly. 

"My my," she glanced at Will with an unreadable expression, before turning back to Tom, "You'll be old and decrepit like me before you know it."

"You're not old!" Tom protested, at the same moment Will said, "You're not decrepit!" 

She laughed and shook her head. "Of course I am. Look at me, being helped down the street by two fine young men!" 

When they approached the Blakes' gate, worry began to seep into Will's muscles again, and he felt compressed, stiff. He noted too that Mabel's smile had now ironed out into a thin, straight line, and a light frown was creasing the space between her eyebrows. Tom had unhooked his arm to open the gate, making the magic of their trio feel broken and disjointed. 

"It's been a while since I've seen Vera," Mabel told Will quietly as they followed Tom up the path. She paused, looking around them at the greenery lining the path, before continuing, "Her and Sandra… They were very close."

Will's shoulders stiffened as another realisation slotted into place. "Does that mean she knows?" he whispered, "About you, I mean." 

Patting his hand almost sympathetically, Mabel chuckled, "My dear, she was one of the wedding guests." 

"So…" his brain was working overtime, syrupy conclusions slipping between the cavities of his joints, "That means she's… Okay with it? With what…  _ we _ are?" 

"Will…" she stopped walking, and Will stopped too. She turned to face him, cupping his face in her hands. "More people love us than you think. I promise you that."

"I-" Will began, although he wasn't sure what he was about to say. 

"Is everythin' alright?" Tom had turned around and noticed them standing still, Mabel holding Will's face as if he was falling apart in her hands. 

"Of course, dear," Mabel smiled reassuringly and dropped her hands, "I just noticed some dirt on Will's face." 

"Oh," Tom's gaze flitted between the two of them, clearly unsure if he should believe her or not. His eyes settled on Will, and Will returned with a pleading look, trying to convey without words,  _ I'll tell you later.  _ Whether Tom understood or not, he shrugged and asked, "Are we ready to go in then?" 

"Yes," Mabel folded her hands in front of her and continued up the path to the front door. 

"Will?" Tom raised his eyebrows as Will hesitated, shifting his weight from foot to foot. 

"Coming," he said, and walked slowly to the place where Tom stood waiting. 

*

They ate fish fingers with homemade chips, cut from the Blakes' own grown potatoes. As Will bit into one, he wondered if they were Charlottes, and, as if reading his mind, Tom had nodded at the chip and murmured, "Maris Pipers." 

Tom was sat at the head of the table, with Will and Mabel sat down one side, and Mrs Blake and Joe sat down the other. His knee pressed lightly against the outside of Will's thigh, and Will wasn't sure if the contact was keeping him grounded, or distracting him from his reality. Mrs Blake and Mabel chatted lightly, if a little stiffly, and Tom would often dip in and begin a story. Joe, sat opposite Will, didn't say much at all, occasionally chuckling at something Tom said, and looking at everyone except Mabel. Joe's apparent disdain for Mabel set a small spark of anger in Will's stomach, fizzing through his blood and heating his ears. Did Joe know about Sandra? Was that the cause of his obvious discomfort? It briefly occurred to Will that there could be something else, something he didn't know, but he brushed that thought away. His lip twitched as Joe asked him to pass the salt, despite it being closer to Mabel. But Will, too, said nothing much to anyone. 

As they finished eating, the drink started flowing, and with it, the conversation turned from airy whimsy to weighted discussion. They each had a glass of wine, despite Tom's evident disgust. 

"To Tom," Joe raised his glass, the deep red liquid swirling in the glass, "The birthday boy." 

"To Tom!" Will, Mabel, and Mrs Blake chorused, as Tom tried to look more embarrassed than pleased, and they clinked their glasses. 

"Blood of Christ," Tom murmured under his breath before raising the glass to his lips, so no one other than Will might notice. 

"Blood of Christ," Will echoed with a smile, before drinking. 

"Thank you so much for inviting me," Mabel said graciously after lowering her glass. 

"Oh, it's no worry," Mrs Blake smiled, taking a second sip, "I don't think I've- Well, I 'aven't seen you since… since the, uh-" 

"The funeral," Mabel cut in, her tone clipped and guarded, "Yes, it's… It's been a long time." 

"Right," Mrs Blake stood up, suddenly brisk, "Let's do the cake, shall we?" 

She went into a large cupboard, and retrieved a sponge cake, nineteen candles already standing upright in the white buttercream icing. She took it carefully over to the kitchen surface, near the sink, where a matchbox sat waiting. 

"Are you going to make a wish, Tom?" Will asked quietly, as Mrs Blake struck a match and lit the candles. 

"Course," Tom grinned crookedly. 

"What ya wishin' for?" Joe smacked him lightly on the shoulder. 

"Well I can't tell ya, can I? Then it won't come true!" 

Still, as they sang out the final notes of "Happy birthday" and Tom blew out the candles as quickly as they had been lit, he kept his eyes on Will. So Will supposed he had an inkling. 

"This cake's amazing," Mabel exclaimed as she ate her slice, crumbs sticking to her lipstick. 

And she was right. Will had never tasted anything like it; the sponge was light, sweet but not  _ too _ sweet. The jam that ran through the middle was cherry, the Blakes' own, he suspected, and the buttercream was beautifully sugary, almost melting in his mouth. 

"Thank you," Mrs Blake beamed, clutching her second glass of wine - she'd already started on a new bottle, "You how I love to bake, me an' Sa-" she halted midsentence, as if a tooth had suddenly fallen out of her mouth, or perhaps words she hadn't been expecting. 

Will glanced around at Tom and Joe, both now looking determinedly at their plates. Beside him, he noticed a slight tremor in his aunt's arm. 

"Are you okay, auntie?" he asked quietly, nerves twisting again. 

She inhaled deeply through her nose. "Yes, of course I am. See, I didn't tell you this, but Vera and Sandra used to work together-" 

"Does he know?" Mrs Blake cut in, gesturing in Will's direction with her wine glass. 

"He knows some," Mabel said, poking and prodding her cake slice with a fork. 

"Hm," Mrs Blake studied Will over the top of her glass before taking a long sip, "You never met Sandra, did ya Will?" 

"Um, no, Mrs Blake. I didn't." 

"She'd've liked you," Mrs Blake said, her tone somewhat warm but her face entirely serious. 

"She would," Mabel agreed, looking at Will too, "She was quite reserved too. Did a lot of thinking. Like you, I think."

"Can we talk about somethin' else?" Joe suddenly spoke up, and all eyes were on him. 

"Why's that?" Mrs Blake frowned, "You liked Sandra." 

"Yeah, exactly," Joe muttered, looking down at his plate, "Look, I just- It's Tom's birthday, innit? Dunno if this is what… He really wants to talk about." 

"I don't mind talkin' about Sandra," Tom said, and his voice was small, shrunk down inside his throat. 

"I don't see what's wrong with talkin' about her," Mrs Blake shrugged one shoulder and smiled sadly, "She was lovely, always kind-" 

Joe slammed a fist on the table, making both its contents and its occupants jump at the sound. "She was  _ murdered!"  _

Mabel made a choking sound, and Mrs Blake hissed,  _ "Joe!"  _ as Tom inhaled sharply. Will felt all the blood in his body run cold, like rain was dripping down the back of his neck. 

_ Murdered.  _

"Look, I'm sorry," Joe was saying, standing up, suddenly far away from Will, "I'm sorry," and he left the kitchen. A few moments later, they heard the slam of the front door. Will distantly wondered where Joe might go. 

"Mabel," Mrs Blake stood too, rounding the table and crouching next to Mabel’s chair. In the corner of his vision, Will saw her take Mabel's shaking hands in her own. "Let's go in the other room, ey?" and the pair of them shuffled out of the kitchen. 

"Will?" Tom murmured, the two of them alone in the remnants of a birthday party, and the overhang of darkened conversation. 

Blinking once, twice, Will managed to turn his head, look at Tom, whose eyes were wide, eyebrows raised. Under the table, a hand found his thigh, and although Will's skin still tingled at the touch, there was nothing sexual in it; just comfort. 

"So, you… You didn't know about Sandra then?" Tom asked, watching him carefully as if he might… 

Might what? Explode? Break? Will wasn't sure what he might do. He shook his head. No, he hadn't known that. 

"Mm," Tom nodded and looked away, at the half-drunk glasses of wine and the plates of partially eaten birthday cake, "Yeah, it was… It was bad." 

Will felt numb, holding on only by the heat and pressure of Tom's palm on his leg. It was odd, he thought, how he had never known Sandra, had only learned of her existence the day before, and yet he was so entirely affected by the nature of her death. He thought about the photograph of her and his aunt, her suit and her smile. He thought of the words on her gravestone, how she was described as an angel. 

"How-" he stumbled out, "What- What happened?" 

Tom swallowed. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, hand never moving from Will's leg. He drank another mouthful of wine. "Stabbed," he said at last, "By her brother."

Visions of red, endless crimson blood, flooded Will's mind. Hands stained by the crime. The lifeforce of another seeping into the skin. 

"Jesus," he breathed, reaching for his drink. But at the sight of the deep, dark red, he withdrew his hand again, head swimming. 

"Yeah," Tom muttered, his voice little more than a low hum, "Look, I- I don't really wanna get into it, but," he glanced at Will, hesitating as if weighing his words, "For a while, there were these rumours. Around the village. That… That your aunt had somethin' to do with it."

The sickening cold between his bones was instantly replaced by a flush of hot rage. 

_ "What?"  _ he hissed through clenched teeth. He tried to picture how anyone could look at his aunt, and believe her capable of murder. He tried to picture how anyone could think her cold-blooded enough to kill the woman she so desperately loved. 

_ "I  _ never believed it," Tom began to rub his thumb over Will's thigh, as if that might disapate his feelings of anger, injustice, "It was just 'cause they were livin' together. An' everyone 'round 'ere, they're desperate for somethin' to talk about. Even if it's blatantly  _ not  _ true." 

"Where did it happen?" Will asked, questions suddenly clutching at his throat. He wondered if it was in Mabel's cottage, if he had ever walked over the spot where Sandra had died, if her blood was soaked deep into the floorboards. He wondered if Mabel was living with a ghost. 

"Bakery her and Mum used to run," Tom's mouth tightened slightly around the edges, "It was awful, Will," his fingers tightened on Will's leg now, clutching at him. 

Will covered Tom's hand with his own. Neither of them spoke for a long while, avoiding looking at the wine on the table, and at each other. 

The image of Sandra's grave filled Will's mind again.  _ "An angel on earth, returned home through the grace of the Lord."  _ He wondered what was so gracious about being stabbed. 

Eventually, he steeled himself to look again at the wine, remind himself that it was truly  _ just wine.  _ Not the blood of Christ, nor the blood of his aunt's dead lover. Just wine. He took hold of his glass with his free hand, and held it up between him and Tom. 

"To Sandra," he murmured, hoping Tom would follow suit. 

"To Sandra," Tom echoed, clinking his glass against Will's. 

They both drained their cups, and then drained the other glasses too. They left the cake; grief was more of a thirst than a hunger. 

"I hope you had a good birthday," Will said softly, squeezing Tom's fingers. Tom had flipped his hand over on Will's leg, lacing their fingers together, pressing palm to palm. "Despite… everything." 

Tom smiled, studying Will's face as if he were a painting. "I did," he replied, eyes stopping on Will's mouth, "In fact, might've been the best birthday I've ever had."

And despite the leaden sadness in Will's stomach, he still felt those butterflies, that thrill at the thought he could make Tom happy in new, ever-changing ways. They kissed briefly, sweetly, before Will untangled their fingers, and rose to his feet. 

*

The walk home had been quiet, Mabel keeping her arms wrapped around herself as if she were cold, and her lips pressed together tight. After the first initial questions of whether she was alright, to no response, Will had shoved his hands into his pockets, and accompanied her in silence.

At the house, she had gone straight into the living room, leaving Will to lock the door. Despite the heat, he found her sat in her armchair with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. He sank onto the sofa, and for half a second, he thought he could see the ghostly chill of the crime hanging in the air. 

"It was her brother," Mabel's voice crackled electric in the quiet of the house, "Well, he was the one who… did it. He… He found out about the two of us, what we were. Flew into a rage, I suppose. Found her at work, and… that was that." 

She paused, staring blindly at the darkened television screen. When Will glanced at it, he only saw the glassy reflection of themselves, a woman and a man in the living room. Perhaps she was watching a different scene, though. One that Will would never see. 

"He came for me, too," she looked at him briefly when he gasped, eyes cold and detached, "After, I mean. Tried to do the same to me as he'd done to her," she drew in a ragged breath, "It was still red with her…" she trailed off. 

Will felt like his mouth was filled with bile, acidic and disgusting. He pictured the blood of two lovers, intermingling tragically on the same blade. United even in sickening murder. 

Mabel's hands worked mechanically, unbuttoning the top of her dress to reveal to him a scar, running thick and dark from collar to chest bone. A physical mark of her loss, her trauma. He supposed it was no coincidence that the line ran almost directly above her heart. 

"How did you… escape?" he croaked, his voice feeling like rough sheets of paper sliding one over the other. 

Mabel absently ran her index finger over the raised skin, remembering the route of the blade. "I don't know," she told him, "I just… don't know," with a swallow, she began to button up her dress again, hiding the fracture in her porcelain, "Often, I don't believe that I should have."

Will felt his lower lip tremble slightly, and realised that he was crying, face dampened by hot tears, rendered unable to speak by the sob that had risen into his throat. Plato's symposium came to mind; the soulmates, two halves of a whole. Two fragments of broken pottery. He imagined the pain of being torn from the person, knowing that they were gone. He wondered how Mabel had ever faced the light again. 

"I just think… It was my fault," she whispered, staring glassy eyed at the floor, "If I hadn't… If I was…" it seemed more like she was speaking to herself now, having forgotten Will altogether - lost in a memory, "It was my fault." 

That's what Tom had said too, about his father. Those who had lost someone were inclined to blame themselves, minds racing with 'what if's. Perhaps it was human nature. Perhaps it was a necessary belief, something better than the alternative that a person whose life was so intertwined with yours had died in a manner that had nothing to do with you at all. It was easier to implicate yourself, build up an eternal guilt, than absolve yourself of a sin only you could hold yourself accountable for: the sin of being unable to stop it. 

"This isn't a cautionary tale, Will," she stood now, jerky like a puppet, "It's not a- A warning," she sat down beside him, looking him directly in the face, "It's just… an unfortunate truth." 

Will nodded glumly, and wiped his face on his wrist. He couldn't return her gaze. 

"Don't… don't let this scare you away from being happy," she reached over and took hold of one of his hands, squeezing it between both of her own, "Just hold onto what you have.  _ Cherish _ it. Nothing lasts forever." 

Will looked at her, and for the first time, she looked old. Her eyes were dark and heavy, shadowed by sleepless nights. She had frown lines on her forehead, between her eyebrows. She wore her lifetime on her face. 

But he also noticed the crows feet at the side of her eyes, the laughter lines on her cheeks. There were more, soaked into her pores, than tragedy and despair. The happy times lay there too, folding in on themselves to be remembered each time she saw her photograph. Each time she saw the colour yellow. 

"Nothing lasts forever," she repeated, "Unless you make it." 

They sat there in the living room until the night was closer to morning, watching the hues turn from oranges to purples to blues to pale yellows. And Will told his aunt, from the beginning, about Tom. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you enjoyed this chapter (or at least some of it)
> 
> i hope that mabels whole. thing doesn't come across too much as "woman suffering for the purpose of male character development" (because in truth, her suffering does little for wills development; its her kindness that helps him more) and i also hope it's not too cliche. in truth, her backstory has evolved and changed a lot while ive been writing this, but this route was what (unfortunately) made the most sense
> 
> anyways, i hope you're all well, comments are hugely appreciated, and thank you for your continued support - this fic is now the length of a short novel, making it the longest thing ive ever written! stay safe <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again, hope you're all well!
> 
> this chapter has a nsfw element, actually the first smut of any kind ive ever written, so forgive me for how quickly i brush over it, and how embarrassed i am by it. if you want to skip it, stop reading at "his lover's touch." and start again at "He cleaned them up softly"
> 
> hope you enjoy, as always!

With whatever it was Will and Tom had now found came the addictive rush of always staying as close as possible. It was adrenaline-fueled proximity, binding the two of them together almost physically at the skin. Will found himself spending days inside Tom's mouth, learning him from the inside out, and relishing the taste of what he found there. Tom was inexperienced and sensitive. He was ravenous. He arched into Will's touch, and then would pause, to gaze with flushed cheeks and round eyes at the man before him with a sort of holy reverence. 

They would spend hazy days, days that felt like weeks, behind the locked door of Tom's bedroom. Under the hot blanket of summer, the hours would stretch and contract, either lasting for an age or slipping away in mere moments. Will tried not to count the seconds, tried not to think of time as the enemy as he ran his finger down Tom's spine through his shirt. He wanted to lock the pair of them up inside a stopped grandfather clock, so that these moments might stretch into forever - a forever where Will didn't have to worry about going back to his parents, or to university, or trying to figure out a life without Tom Blake in it. 

He knew that they couldn't  _ be  _ anything as well as he knew his own name. That even if the future  _ wasn't  _ lingering on the fringes of his vision, there wasn't a place here for people like them. No matter how much his aunt might try to convince him otherwise; their time would always be running out. 

He made this abundantly clear to Tom, who, despite all his defiance and naivety, understood and accepted the hourglass nature of their… Will refused to name it, unsure he would even know how. Not only because of its uncertain character, but because of the quantity of it. The constant overflow of  _ feeling  _ that spilled from his chest, from his mouth, so much that he could barely hold it in his hands. There was so much that he wondered if he might drown in it. (He almost hoped that he would, for that would rid him of all time constraints, relieve the pressure of what lay ahead that pressed so heavily on his back.) Was there a word for that? If there was, it eluded him, and he allowed it to. 

Actually telling Tom was difficult. Not because he wouldn't understand, but because he would. 

"I- I don't know what…  _ this _ means to you," he'd said quietly one afternoon as Tom lay his head on Will's chest. 

He didn't know what day it was, didn't  _ want  _ to know, for in the end each day was just a marker of how long they'd been together, and how much closer they were to it ending. He didn't need to count the Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, to know that he had been with Tom forever (or, at least, the only forever that mattered) and that it still would never be long enough. 

But, "I don't know what  _ this _ means to you," he'd said, knowing with all of his being that it meant  _ everything _ to him, "But… Well, you know it can't last, right?" It ached just to say it, more tangibly now, like speaking it somehow made it more true. 

Tom had tensed, ear now hovering above Will's breast rather than being pressed flat to it. Still, he'd murmured, "Yes," voice hushed, like it was a secret. "Yes," he knew, but he wished he didn't. 

"Hm," Will hummed, moving his hand, which had been resting lightly on Tom's shoulder, down to stroke his arm, feeling the way Tom's skin, his hair, stood to attention at the touch. He hadn't expected Tom to understand so easily. Tom, brazen and determined, knew the weight of each touch, the caveat of their sweet desire. Agonisingly, that only made Will love him more. 

"I'll have to go home eventually," he'd continued, as if Tom had protested - it would've been easier, really, if he had, "And after that, I'll be going to university again."

Tom hummed sadly at this, allowing his head to fall back onto Will's chest, splaying his fingers over Will's stomach. "I'd wait for you, y'know," he mumbled, barely loud enough to hear. The words still roared hot in Will's ears. 

He thought of it, a year away from here, with the promise of Tom at the end of it. His saintly pilgrimage. His divine rite.

"I couldn't ask you to do that," he said, now softly twining his fingers in Tom's hair. 

"You could," Tom drew small circles on Will's belly with his index finger, "I'd do it, you  _ know _ I would." 

Will closed his eyes, feeling all of Tom's heat and weight upon him. He focused on the ticklish loops Tom was tracing, over and over through his shirt. They sank into him, stirring up the butterflies again as he imagined Tom sitting alone in this village for a year. 

On his tongue dripped a venomous question, one that he was sure he didn't need to voice for they both knew it:  _ who said I was coming back?  _

Tom's promise of waiting tied Will into a promise too - the promise that he would return. But the future, the ominous question mark that hung over Will's bed at night, was so vague to him that he had no idea how he could ever vow to come back to Tom and fully believe it. 

In his head, he went over the things he knew: He knew that he would be summoned home eventually, and that he'd have to go. He knew that he would go back to university, study History, although to what end, he didn't know. He would turn twenty one. He'd go home to his parents for Christmas, and then return to university. He wouldn't go home again until he'd graduated, degree in hand, and then-

And then what? He had no idea what he wanted to do beyond that. No job prospects lined up. What, after all, would he do with a History degree? Even if he  _ were _ to come back here, he was certain he wouldn't find a job, much less one that required a university education. 

He opened his eyes again and looked at Tom, who was watching him with his big blue eyes, studying each crease of his face. 

"Let's just make the most of the time we have," he'd said softly, before planting a small kiss on Tom's forehead. 

And Tom had nodded, with an air of disappointment, before he stilled his fingers and his eyes fluttered shut. 

*

Despite the time they were spending together, they'd never gone any further than hands over clothes, with the exception of finding each other's bare skin underneath their shirts. It was always Will who stopped them, as Tom's hands moved towards trouser buttons, trying to tug t-shirts over heads. 

"No," or "Stop," or "Not right now," he'd whisper, taking hold of Tom's hands and slipping their fingers together. And, despite his hormonal teenage frustration, Tom would always listen, tightening his grip around Will's palms and moving to lightly press kisses along Will's jaw. 

It wasn't that Will didn't  _ want _ things to progress. In fact, he was desperate for it. Often he thought the heated lust in the pit of his stomach was going to drive him insane. It was maddening, intoxicating, and took every ounce of self control to stop Tom from taking the next step, especially when surrender would be so blissfully easy. But a series of individual worries, each with their own taste, piled up on top of one another, building up a wall between Will and what he so fervently desired. 

The first of these anxieties was an acknowledgement of the fact that Tom had never been with anyone else. He was, it seemed, Tom's first everything. And that thought sent him into a panic, as he wondered night after night if he was good enough. Although a part of him knew it perhaps wasn't as deep as he'd convinced himself, he still felt terrifyingly electrified at the thought that taking Tom into his hand meant also taking hold of his first touch - and anything that followed would become his too. The responsibility, the weight, of taking ownership of such precious moments and being the one who must take care of them frightened him more than he could say; not because he didn't want them, but because he feared he was unworthy of keeping them. 

This worry was followed immediately by a second: that he was  _ defiling  _ Tom. Even what they were doing now, sharing saliva and air and heat, felt a lot like a crime. Not because it felt wrong, but because it felt so  _ right.  _ Being Tom's first, he was learning it all from Will, shaping himself into what  _ Will  _ liked. Perhaps if they were both learning together, it would feel more innocent. But Will's backlog of encounters with boys and girls alike suddenly weighed on him, and he wondered if Tom felt like he was kissing, not only Will, but every other person who'd met Will's mouth. The thought of Tom in those hazy, intoxicated nights made Will feel ill; Tom belonged  _ here,  _ where he was perfect and pure and innocent. He rarely stopped to wonder whether his elevated view of Tom was harmful, for he could barely conceive of the idea that Tom Blake was just another person, like everyone else he'd ever met. 

He didn't want to dirty Tom. Not just in the physical sense, but in the spiritual sense. Will already knew his hands were stained red before the Lord, the feel of men embedded deeply into his skin. He worried, not only that touching him would mark Tom's own hands, but that Will's palms would leave smears on Tom's soul that no amount of prayer would remove. If there was one thing he could do before he had to leave, it would be to save Tom from eternal damnation. 

All this, on top of the  _ law.  _ It was always playing on his mind, the legality of being with Tom. He'd not seen a police officer once during his stay, but a part of him was still convinced that someone would know what they were doing, and that in the blink of an eye, a copper would be bursting into Tom's bedroom and tearing them apart. He didn't dare think about what might happen next. 

It was always a relief to go home, to his bed, and find release in his own hand. When he did, he always made sure to avoid thinking about Tom specifically, to instead focus on the sensations, the sounds. Maybe it was silly, but he knew he'd feel guilty, granting himself pleasure over Tom, and not offering Tom any in return. 

Still, he knew his own heated desire had to boil over eventually, for there was always a point where rationality could be overtaken by  _ want.  _ He could only grind himself against Tom's thigh for so long before his brain, clouded by burning lust, would push aside each worry as irrelevant, and give in to hands and warmth. 

Fittingly enough, it was a Sunday when it happened. Mrs Blake and Joe were at church again, and Will had hurried over almost as soon as he awoke. It was funny, he thought, that he spent most of his time at the Blakes', and that they themselves were barely aware of it; he'd arrive when he knew they were out, and if they were home, Tom would sneak him around, like they might try to steal Will if they saw him. For the most part, Will was grateful for this, having not spoken to Joe since the debacle at Tom's birthday dinner, and feeling too embarrassed to look Mrs Blake in the eye, given what he was doing with her son. 

They had breakfasted together, and, with the two of them alone in the kitchen, Myrtle running around their legs, it felt domestic and homely, as if they'd been together for years. This feeling heightened when Will went to wash up, and Tom came up behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist and pressing soft kisses behind his ear, like secrets to be kept for later. 

After, they'd hurried to Tom's bedroom, leaving the backdoor open to give Myrtle full run of the garden, instead of trying to break into Tom's room where she  _ knew  _ they were hiding. 

Tom pulled him onto the bed, so that they were lying one above the other, Will hovering over Tom. And they quickly became a mess of limbs, bodies pressed together, grabbing and biting and gasping. Feverish. Animalistic. They often found themselves like this, able to feel the bones of each other. Will wondered where Tom started and where he ended. Did it make any difference? His mouth was Tom's mouth, was it not? His hands were Tom's hands too. 

Truly, nothing made this different from any other time. It was spine tingling, electric. He wanted to melt into Tom, wanted to touch every inch as want trembled in his gut. But this time, he supposed, the dam broke, and he could no longer stave off the magnitude of his lust. 

Tom, above him now, reached for the top button of Will's jeans… and Will let him. He surrendered himself to his lover's touch. 

Tom's hand, shaking as he slipped Will out of his boxers, was not well practiced. His hands were soft and warm, rings pressing slightly colder into Will's flesh. His strokes were sporadic, not rhythmic, and each up and down made Will feel like his spine was going to fall out his arse. Sometimes he would squeeze too hard, and Will would gasp in shock, and other times his grip would loosen to the point of barely being there, leaving Will to desperately seek out more friction. 

But in the end, none of this mattered to Will, being so entranced by the feel of Tom's hand against newly touched flesh, and the ripples of pleasure through his body, culminating in that huge wave overtaking him, that release into Tom's hand, and the tensing and relaxing of every muscle in his body. He closed his eyes when it hit, letting out a quiet, guttural noise, before laying back against Tom's pillow. He was very suddenly aware of how sweaty he was. 

When he opened his eyes, breathing ragged, Tom was watching him with wide eyes, pupils blown. He seemed to be out of breath too, as if just watching Will finish had exhausted him. 

"Fuck," Will breathed, looking at the sticky mess coating Tom's fingers, which hovered over Will's now flacid cock. It seemed he wasn't sure what to do with his hand. 

On the bedside, next to the permanent plate as an ashtray, Will noticed a pile of tissue. He sat up, grabbing a handful, before wiping, first Tom's fingers, slowly, carefully, and then his own member, before tucking it back into his boxers. 

His attention then turned to Tom's hardness, pressing so desperately against the fabric of his pyjama bottoms (for he rarely bothered to dress when Will came over). The sight alone set a fire anew in Will's gut, already hungry for more, if more was what Tom wanted to give him. 

Tom was straddling his legs, clean hands now ghosting over Will's shoulders. Slowly, teasingly, Will placed his hands on Tom's thighs, and gradually moving them up towards his hips. Under his palms, Tom squirmed as if being tickled. He brought one hand to the back of Will's head and knotted his fingers into the longer strands of hair he could find. 

Will's gaze travelled from Tom's crotch up to his face, finding him open mouthed, pink cheeked, glassy eyed. God, he was  _ beautiful. _ Still focused on Tom's lips, their quivering, the way Tom's tongue would dart out to wet them, Will slipped his hands into the waistband of Tom's trousers. He found the smooth skin of Tom's hips, and delighted in the shiver that ran through Tom's being as he caressed him there, finding the places that Tom had never before been touched. 

Where he'd originally been so anxious, feeling untrustworthy with all of Tom's firsts, he now relished, realising that each place he touched was  _ his  _ now. Laying claim where no one else ever had. Overcome by a sudden rush of possessiveness, he buried his face in Tom's neck and bit lightly at the warm skin there. 

"F- For fuck's-  _ sakes,  _ Will," Tom hissed grip tightening in his hair as Will pushed him gently onto his back, mouth still at his neck. 

Carefully, he pulled down Tom's trousers and pants, allowing his erection to stand up almost straight. Will bit back a teasing remark about how eager Tom was, and wrapped his hand around him. Immediately, Tom arched into his touch, fingers grasping at his bed sheets, chest heaving. Will kept his movements slow and rhythmic, knowing that Tom was already close, and not wanting to embarrass him. That, and the way he was enjoying seeing Tom like this, helpless and sweaty, whimpering under his touch. 

Still, it was over perhaps sooner than Will would've liked. Tom had begged in a whisper, "Please, Will, faster." And always being eager to please, Will had obliged, and Tom had finished hot and quick in his hand. 

He cleaned them up softly as Tom lay boneless and breathless. That wave of domesticity returned, this time feeling more abstract and funny. He cleaned them both as if they were the same. Like, even after the act, his hands were still Tom's, and Tom's hands were still his. 

"Let's have a smoke," Tom said when he'd caught his breath, pulling up his trousers and pushing himself up off his back. 

And Will passed him a cigarette, and lit it when Tom placed it in his mouth. And they passed it back and forth, playfully blowing smoke rings in each other's faces. And Will realised with a strange calmness that he didn't feel guilty for what they'd done. Not one bit. 

*

"Will, there's someone on the phone for you," Mabel called through from the living room. 

It was a Tuesday and they'd just finished eating - homemade vegetable soup. Will had been washing up when the phone rang, and now he dried his hands and hurried into the living room. 

Dread filled his stomach, knowing it was probably his mother, for no one else ever called. And if it was his mother, he was being summoned home. His arms felt leaden as he took the receiver from Mabel, who gave him an unreadable look. 

"Hello?" 

"Will?" 

His heart nearly leapt at the sound of his sister's voice, crackling over the line. 

"Lizzy!" he exclaimed, sinking into the chair next to the phone. He caught his aunt's eye as she smiled and left the room. "How are you?" 

She chuckled lightly. "Oh, y'know. Healthy. Tired."

"Are you still at home?" 

"Yeah, Mum's helping a lot. Dad too, sometimes."

"And Jack?" 

Eliza paused at the mention of her husband, a builder, who Will liked well enough as a person, but not enough as his sister's husband. 

"He's been quite busy," she said, which Will knew meant he'd been out drinking most nights. 

"Hmm." 

She sighed. "I wish you were here, Will. It's been ages since I've seen you."

"I know," he said sadly, "I wish I was there too." The lie only twisted slightly in his stomach, for he  _ did  _ want to see his sister, but overall wasn't too keen on leaving. 

"I think it'll be better when everything's back to normal," she sighed again, "We can go back to ours', and you can come  _ home,  _ and we can have a catch up before you go back to uni. Susie's  _ dying  _ to see you again." 

Will chuckled at the thought of seeing Susie again, of chasing her around his sister's back garden, and having tea with her toys. But the word  _ home _ jammed itself between his ribs, uncomfortable and unfitting. That house, with his parents, wasn't  _ home _ anymore, he realised, although perhaps he'd known that for a long time. The only trouble was that nowhere else was home either. 

"Do y'know when you're going yet?" he asked, despite not really wanting to know. He could gauge how much time he had left here. He could time his goodbyes. 

"No, not yet," Eliza replied. She clicked her tongue once, before saying, "I'm sorry for causing such a fuss. I didn't think you'd be… sent away."

"It's okay," he murmured, "I… I like it here more than I thought I would." 

"Really?" she sounded surprised, "Are you not  _ terribly  _ bored?" 

Will laughed. "No, I'm not. In fact, I…" Met someone.  _ Really _ like this boy here. Fell in l- "I've made a friend." 

_ "Really?"  _ she sounded even more shocked at the prospect of Will, quiet, introspective Will, having made a friend. "A girl?" she asked with mock suspicion, and Will swallowed down the lump that formed in his throat at her implication. 

"Uh, no," he corrected, remembering the lines of Tom's body, the roughness of his kiss, "A boy. Tom Blake."

"Blake…" she was thoughtful now, as if trying to remember something long buried. Whatever it was, she dismissed it with a hum, and said, "Well I'm glad it's not been  _ all  _ bad then." 

"Yeah," Will couldn't help the smile that tugged at his mouth, "It's been really nice, actually." 

For a few moments, they were quiet. Will dangerously wondered about telling her about him, what he truly was. He'd never said anything before. Equally, she'd never said anything to suggest she even  _ thought  _ about homosexuals, whether in a positive light or a negative one. When they were small, they'd tell each other everything. Best friends. Now, Will was afraid he knew nothing of his sister, and was certain she knew even less of him. He ached in his chest, where he kept his happy memories, and where Eliza was so carefully housed. 

"Lizzy-" he started, heart suddenly hammering in his throat, although he was unsure where he was going with it. What words would he even find? 

"Oh, I've got to go!" she exclaimed, "Jane's crying, oh she's probably hungry. It's been lovely talking to you, Will, really. See you soon!" 

She had slammed the phone down before Will could respond. He sighed, heart still speeding as he put down the receiver. In retrospect, it was probably best he hadn't told her. At least not over the phone. 

"How is she?" Mabel asked him when he wandered back into the kitchen to resume his washing up. 

"She's okay," he shrugged one shoulder, turning to the sink, "Tired, mostly." 

"Oh, I could only imagine," Mabel chuckled from the kitchen table, sipping at the mug in her hands, "Did she say when she'd be home?" 

"She doesn't know," Will tried to smile over his shoulder, "So I'm afraid you're still stuck with me." 

She laughed again, shaking her head. "I'm not sure what I'm going to do when you're gone, Will. Who's going to do the washing up for me?" 

Will snorted a laugh. "No, you'll be okay," he murmured, "Won't have to cook for me, for one." 

"I'm sure I'll still end up cooking for two," she tilted her head to one side, "Maybe I'll have to ask your Tom over sometimes."

_ Your Tom.  _ Will felt a simultaneous warmth and restlessness in his stomach. Comfort at this attachment, the entanglement of his life with Tom's. And nausea at the imminence of his leaving, brought on by his sister's unexpected call. "Home" was a lot closer than he'd allowed himself to believe, and when he went, he'd be leaving  _ his Tom  _ behind. 

"You'll look after him, won't you?" he asked Mabel now, feeling suddenly cold and afraid. 

Mabel was quiet for a while, studying his back intently. "Of course I will," she promised, "Although  _ he'll _ probably be the one looking after  _ me." _

Finishing up at the sink, Will sat down opposite his aunt. He noticed a second mug on the table, full of warm tea; she'd made it for him. 

"Thank you," he murmured, although whether he was thanking her for the tea, her promise, or for everything else, he wasn't sure. 

She acknowledged his thanks with a smile, taking another sip of her drink. 

Will tried not to think about how this felt like an ending, the way the night drawing in made it feel like a closing scene. He knew that he'd wake up here again tomorrow, that he'd see Blake again, eat dinner with Mabel. He knew it wasn't over yet. But endings had a habit of creeping in, ever closer, and often, they were much easier to spot than beginnings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked this chapter!
> 
> ill admit ive started to lose my momentum now that they're actually... Together (im more about the build up) but i know how i want this story to end, and (unfortunately) it definitely leaves room for a follow up story, if you don't like loose ends lmao
> 
> feel free to leave a comment or 10, and shout at me on my other social media
> 
> stay safe!


	12. Chapter 12

"Stay here tonight," Tom said. 

"Hmm?" Will looked up from where he was peeling potatoes - Prince Alberts, he remembered proudly. 

They were playing house again, as had become more common now that they'd worn out the initial spark of exploring each other's bodies. Which wasn't to say that they were  _ bored  _ of it already; in fact, it was quite the opposite. They enjoyed the build up to it, the light touches, the longing glances, knowing that they would eventually find themselves in Tom's bedroom, rolling around like it was their honeymoon. Drawing it out made it feel more special, if that were even possible. It made Will feel like they were something  _ real.  _

"Stay here tonight," Tom repeated, walking over from where he'd been standing by the teapot to rest his chin on Will's shoulder, eyes pleading. Will recognised this as one of Myrtle's techniques, placing her chin on your leg and begging with her eyes for a bite of whatever it was you were eating. He wondered who had learned it from who. 

"I can't," he said, squirming as Tom's fingers playfully poked him in the side, "Mabel's expecting me home for dinner."

"So call her, tell her yer stayin' with me," Tom placed a hand on either side Will's waist, as if he were slow dancing with Will's back, "She's hip, she won't mind."

He made it sound so easy, and Will could almost hate him for it. In truth, the idea sounded heavenly. An evening without a time limit, a night that could stretch on into forever. But that was precisely the problem: Will feared that if he stayed with Tom one night, then he may never again bring himself to leave. 

"Tom," he sighed, as Tom pressed a light kiss to the nape of his neck. 

"Please," Tom mumbled against his skin, and the heat of his breath made Will tremble. 

"Tom, I-  _ Ah,  _ fuck," he hissed, dropping the knife he'd been holding. In the midst of all Tom's distractions, Will had nicked his thumb with the blade, and it now stung red. 

Will moved to put his thumb in his mouth, to suck at the cut as it bled. But just before it reached its destination, Tom caught hold of his wrist, and brought Will's injury to his own lips. He sucked where it bled, tongue swiping over the small wound as if it were his own. With an excited shiver, Will wondered if his blood tasted different, or if they were the same. Whether or not they matched on the inside. 

Tom removed Will's thumb from his mouth again, and pressed a small, wet kiss to the cut. 

"All better," he said quietly, now meeting Will's eye, for it seemed, up until then, he had felt too embarrassed. 

This small act was enough to tip the balance of Will's mind. He'd been clinging onto rationality by a tiny thread, begging himself not to give in, as he so often did these days. But Tom licking his wounds, as if it were something they did all the time, as if it were his own hand bleeding, had snapped that thread. 

"I'll stay," he told Tom now, turning to hold Tom's face in both of his palms, "I'll stay." 

*

Dinner that evening was uncomfortable, although it tried not to be. Mrs Blake was excited to see Will, having not seen him for a while - practically forever, she'd called it, considering how much time he spent with Tom. Will had smiled at this awkwardly, remembering all the evenings Tom had snuck him out the door without her knowing. 

Joe, although nice enough, couldn't seem to meet Will's eye, even when they shook hands. He was clearly still embarrassed by his outburst at Tom's birthday, but didn't want to mention it, in case it made things worse. In a way, Will felt sorry for him, although he couldn't quite explain why. Something to do with bringing ghosts to the dinner table. 

They ate a simple beans-on-toast, which felt so homely that it set Will on edge. It felt like he had walked in on them, uninvited. A stranger who had muscled in. A man only here to steal their valuables, and decline their tea. 

Tom kept up lively conversation throughout the meal, asking his mother about the bakery. Will learned that she still owned it, the site of Sandra's murder, but that she didn't open it anymore - couldn't bear to even step foot in it. Apparently she'd been trying to sell it for a long while, and had met with a potential buyer earlier that day. 

"But," she sighed, mopping up tomato sauce with a square of bread, "I think it'll fall through. Always does, don't it?" 

"Don't think like that, Mum," Joe frowned. 

"Yeah, think positive," Tom agreed, "Just keep yer hopes up, keep prayin'." 

She laughed at that. "I'm not sure what  _ God _ 'as to do with it. Think I'd do better prayin' to an estate agent!" 

Will wondered what it was like inside that bakery, the place where a woman's life had been snuffed out. Was she still lingering in the walls? Did her blood still mark the floor? 

He was relieved when they finished eating and Tom dragged him back to his bedroom. There, they returned to their own world, where time weighed less than cigarette smoke, and they spoke a language no one else could understand. Outside, the light was not yet dimming, but Tom shut the curtains anyway, so they could tell the hour, not by the colour of the sky, but by how many fags they'd shared. By the progressive laziness of their kisses. 

They lay shoulder to shoulder on the width of Tom's bed, knees knocking together as they dangled their legs over the edge. Every so often, Tom would pick up Will's hand and absent-mindedly trace over the lines of his palm, the rivers where his veins ran just beneath the skin, the creases of his knuckles. It was as if he was reading a story with his fingertips, learning Will in yet another way, over and over again. At this point, Will thought he might have Tom's fingerprints committed to memory. 

"Did I ever tell ya about this one time where," he snorted at the mere memory, "Me an' Joe snuck a  _ squirrel  _ into school?" 

Will, nursing their third cigarette, raised a skeptical eyebrow. "No, do tell." 

Tom grinned, and launched into a tale of him and his brother catching a squirrel in the orchard one year, after they'd caught it eating their cherries. 

"We 'ad it trapped in, like, this cage thing, right?" he waved his hands above them to indicate the size of the enclosure, "An' Joe wan'ed to kill it. Said it was a theivin' bastard, and Dad woulda killed it straight away. But, I was only about eight at the time, an' I said  _ no way  _ am I killin' a squirrel. What if it didn't die, and then it bit me toes off when I was asleep?" 

Will chuckled, watching Tom's animated profile. When he told a story, he became so vibrant with it, as if it were playing out before him. No matter how simple a story was, Tom made it exciting, and it was always worthwhile, to listen to his voice, to watch his facial expressions. 

"So Joe says, 'Well we ain't keepin' as a bloody pet!' and I says, 'Why not?' This was before we got Myrtle, see, so I thought a squirrel might be fair game. Anyway, he goes, 'Cuz it's a pest, Tom! It'll give ya diseases an' that!' 

"Now, at this point, I'm gettin' a bit upset. I says, 'Well can't we just let it go then?' And," he laughed, "Then Joe looks at me like he's just 'ad  _ divine inspiration,  _ right? He says, 'How's about we take it to school?' I said, 'What, like show an' tell?' an' he says, 'No, like a prank.' 

"Now don't go gettin' it twisted, I weren't a troublemaker at school. Too scared of gettin' caned. But," he grinned at Will with childlike delight, "I thought this sounded like the best idea in the world. 

"So we leave the squirrel in the cage overnight, give it some food an' that. Next mornin', Joe wakes me up really early. Empties everythin' out of his school bag, and we stuff the cage in there. Nearly got bit a few times, cuz the squirrel was a little sod. Then we get the bus over to the next village, where the school was, and we're excited. Feels like Christmas. People kept askin' us what we were grinnin' about but we said  _ nothin'. _

"So we get to school, and we think, okay, where can we let the squirrel out without gettin' caught? Dunno how we did it, but we managed to sneak into the hall where assembly was gonna be, let the squirrel loose, and peg it back outside. Chaos when someone went in there and saw the little beast, I tell ya," he cackled, "Feel a bit sorry for the squirrel every now an' then, but s'not like we  _ hurt  _ it." 

"Jesus," Will laughed, "And how many strokes did you get for it?" 

"None," Tom sat up, grinning proudly, "We weren't ever caught for it." 

"Bullshit," Will sat up too, smiling wide, "There's no  _ way  _ no one saw you release a bloody  _ squirrel  _ into the school." 

"Nah, nah, we weren't ever caught!" Tom insisted, "It's the truth." 

Will narrowed his eyes at Tom and blew smoke into his face. "I think you're lying." 

"I'm not!" Tom exclaimed in mock offence, taking the cigarette from Will, "You can even ask Joe-" 

"Nope," Will shook his head, "I think you, Tom Blake, are the world's biggest bullshitter." 

"Oh yeah?" Tom smirked around the cigarette. He reached over to his bedside, where the dictionary Will had given him took pride of place, like his own version of the Bible. "Well, you  _ also  _ think I'm-" he flicked to a random page,  _ "Funny,"  _ he flipped to another page,  _ "Intelligent,"  _ and again,  _ "Sexy-"  _

"I never circled sexy!" Will protested lunging for the book. 

Tom held it just out of his reach, cigarette hanging precariously from his lip as he continued pulling out random words and phrases - "Seductive, bitchin', a catch," - and Will strained further to reach. He clambered on top of Tom, grabbing at Tom's arm and pulling it gently towards him. By now he was sat straddling Tom's torso, knees bracketing his ribs - there was nowhere for Tom to go. 

"Fuck's sakes," Tom grinned as Will finally wrenched the dictionary from his hand, and he laughed when Will placed the book back gently on the bedside. 

He took the cigarette from Tom's mouth and placed it on their plate, before falling forward onto his hands, hovering over Tom. "Maybe," he murmured low next to Tom's ear,  _ "Maybe,  _ I do think you're all those things," he pressed a chaste kiss to Tom's cheek, "But I'd never admit it!" 

Tom giggled, bringing his hands up to Will's face and rubbing his thumb lightly over the skin under his eye. "Good thing I  _ will  _ then," he said, "I think you're a knob."

Will gasped in feigned shock, sitting up straight and taking hold of Tom's wrists. "Anything else?" 

"Yeah, I think you're a bastard," Tom smiled up at him with sunshine in his eyes. His palms now pressed flat against Will's chest, and Will kept them there. "And I think you’re a twat."

"Wow," Will rolled his eyes sarcastically, "All this time, I thought you  _ liked  _ me. Finished?" 

"No, I also think you're a cunt, and you're an arse. And I think I love you." 

Will's stomach dropped through the floor at the same moment his heart burst through the ceiling. His hold of Tom's wrists loosened, and he stared at Tom with wide eyes. Tom stared back, equally shocked by what he'd said. 

"Tom," Will tried, as the word beat in his head on his pulse.  _ Love, love, love.  _

"You- You don't have ta say it back," Tom said quietly, balling his fingers in the fabric of Will's shirt, "In fact, forget I said it." 

_ Love.  _

"Tom," he said again, with no idea of what he intended to follow. 

"Let's just get ready for bed, yeah?" Tom released Will's top and shoved at one of his thighs so they could both get up. 

Almost in a daze, Will slid off him, trying to make sense of what Tom had said. It should be simple, shouldn't it? He'd said  _ love.  _ And it wasn't like Will hadn't thought the same of Tom. That he  _ loved  _ him, or at least something close. The thought came to him as naturally as breathing, and almost as often. 

But he supposed that he hadn't expected Tom to feel like that about  _ him.  _ As much as they might be the  _ same,  _ he didn't think they were a complete match. Tom was not his mirror image. Surely he couldn't feel so much for someone so… unworthy. 

He watched Tom now, digging pyjamas out of a drawer. If he looked hard enough, would he  _ see  _ that love? Where did Tom carry it? But he couldn't spot it through Tom's neutralised expression, his guarded body language. 

When Tom passed him a set of pyjamas, he put them on, despite them being slightly too small. They changed facing each other, every so often catching the other watching them, like hungry voyeurs. Even with Tom's words hanging in the air between them, and Will's lack of response swaying beside them, they still could not help how ravenous they were for every inch of each other's flesh, devouring soft skin with their eyes. 

They went to the bathroom together, where they shared Tom's toothbrush, his towel, his soap. They washed each other's faces, and dried their own at the same time, bumping noses through the soft towelling material. 

After, they returned to Tom's room, where they sat on the bed and lit yet another cigarette. When their fingers brushed, Will thought again about love, and  _ why, _ although he so clearly felt it, he'd refused to fully acknowledge it. As aware as he was of his feelings, they tended to reside more at the back of his mind than the front. Like the acknowledgement of a long-lasting toothache, but no thought further than that. He brushed it off like an itch, perhaps hoping it wouldn't bother him again, despite knowing that it certainly would. But to what end did he deny himself? 

The answer lay, as did most things, with God. More specifically, the teaching that love could only exist between a man and a woman. Romantic love, at least. Perhaps he'd convinced himself that all he did with Tom was permissible with the absence of love. That their actions simply blocked the cavity, without fully filling it. He could not be condemned for acts of frivolity, surely. Nothing so tangible, so heavy, as love. 

He thought of them sharing cigarettes, as they were now, sharing smoke, sharing air. He thought of them sharing Tom's toothbrush, sharing bread, sharing hands. He thought of Tom bringing Will's cut to his mouth, his blood in Tom's mouth. 

For a time, Will had convinced himself that Tom was a trap, set for him by the devil to lead him into temptation. But looking at Tom now, he saw only heavenly light. There was no sin hidden in the creases of Tom's skin - only virtue. He looked at Tom and knew that no god could condemn him for loving him, because that god had to love him too.

"I love you too," he exhaled on a mouthful of smoke. 

Tom looked up at him in soft surprise. 

"I love you too," he repeated. 

"Will, don't- don't feel like you have to-" 

"No, I- I  _ love _ you," he said, pushing all of the passion in his body out with his words, "I do." 

Tom searched his face, as if he might find something hidden there, a sign that Will was lying in the crease where his nose met his cheek. But Will felt more honest before Tom than he'd ever been in his life. He was open, scarily so. He was praying, now, his most sincere devotion; not to God, but to Tom. 

A small smile bloomed on Tom's lips, and he took the fag back from Will. 

"Good to know," he gave a lopsided grin, before taking a deep drag. 

*

They pressed up against each other in Tom's single bed, sheet thrown back so it only covered their feet. At first they were chest to chest, wondering if they could force their hearts to beat at the exact same time. 

Will traced Tom's face slowly in the dark, mapping each curve and decline. He closed his eyes as he did so, remembering each line so that when he left he might still be able to picture Tom's face perfectly behind his eyelids. Tom fluttered his eyelashes against Will's hand, and licked playfully at his fingers, each time eliciting a breathy laugh from Will. After touring Tom's features more times than he could count, he skimmed his hand over Tom's cheek, his neck, and let it rest in the crook where the neck met the shoulder.

"You're beautiful," he whispered, and it was as loud as glass shattering, and just as fragile. 

_ "Girls _ are beautiful," Tom whispered back mockingly, remembering when he'd called Will pretty. 

"No," Will smiled into the dark, "No, just you. Only you." 

"And what are you then?" 

It was Tom's turn to run a finger over Will's face. Following every bone. Slowing as it slipped across Will's lips. 

"We're not talking about me," Will said as Tom's finger drew down the bridge of his nose.

"I am," Tom stroked over Will's cupid's bow, "I'm always talkin' about you." 

"Yeah?" Will felt his voice tremor, "What do you say? Good things, I hope." 

Tom hummed a laugh. His fingers drew a line from the corner of Will's mouth to his hairline, where they now began to comb through the hair at Will's temple. "That you're a criminal," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the corner of Will's mouth, "And that you're a saint. That I wish you'd stay. That you're beautiful." 

"I'd stay if I could," Will sighed, feeling suddenly leaden. 

"I know." 

Will slid his own fingers into the hair at the nape of Tom's neck. Curling the strands like rings. "But I'm here now," he pressed his fingertips to Tom's warm scalp. 

"You are," Tom's hand scraped along Will's jaw, coming to rest under Will's chin. His thumb caressed Will's lower lip, like a gentle kiss. "You're here now." 

They shifted a few times, always clinging to each other's side, until, at last, Will lay on his back, and Tom pressed his head to Will's chest. Tom fell asleep to the rise and fall of Will's breath, and although he was heavy on Will's ribs, he felt like an anchor. Will was here, now, and Tom wouldn't let him simply drift away. He fell asleep feeling safe and happy. As if no harm could ever find them again. 

*

He awoke with his nose buried in Tom's shoulder, arm flung protectively over Tom's waist. During the night, they had clearly orbited each other, two planets on the same trajectory. Will stretched his legs and thought over the dreams he'd had - of umbrellas and labradors, wooden gates and three teaspoons of sugar. Where he lay, he couldn't see Tom's face. But he could hear his breathing, slow and rhythmic, still deep in sleep. 

He once again found himself awash with a sense of serenity and happiness, one that he'd never before felt. It was warm, sunshine in his bloodstream. With a sad twist in his chest, he realised that this was what  _ home  _ felt like, and that he wasn't allowed to stay. 

First, he pressed a soft kiss to Tom's shoulder through the fabric of his pyjamas, then another in the centre of Tom's back, right between his shoulder blades. He lightly kissed at the skin of the back of Tom's neck, once, twice, three times. 

"Tom," he mumbled into his lover's flesh, "Tom. Wake up."

Tom gave a confused grunt but didn't move. 

"Tom," Will continued, "Tom, I love you."

"Hmm. Should 'ope so," came the muffled response, as Tom turned his face towards his pillow. 

Will grinned and further pressed his mouth to Tom's neck, so that he could feel the heat of his every word. "Wake up, Tom. S'time to wake up."

"Geroff," Tom muttered, flinging his arm behind him to lightly smack Will away, "S'like bein' licked by a dog." 

"Well that's  _ ruff,"  _ Will propped himself up on his elbow to gaze down at the boy beside him. 

Tom briefly rolled over to catch Will's eye, sharing a small smile with him, before burying his face back in his pillow. "Piss off." 

"Get up then," he gently pushed Tom's back, "I need a piss." 

"Then  _ go,"  _ Tom grumbled, "No one's stoppin' ya." 

Leaving a peck on Tom's temple, Will climbed over him and headed out to the bathroom. There, he caught the eye of his reflection in the mirror. They grinned at each other. He was certainly not usually a morning creature, preferring to sleep until noon if he could. But being with Tom had somehow shifted his sleep cycle, making him almost excited to sleep if it brought their reunion closer. Waking up next to Tom had given him a new joie de vivre; he wanted to jump out of sheer elation. He felt like a child on Christmas morning. 

"Tom, is that you?" Mrs Blake called as Will shut the bathroom door. 

"Um, no Mrs Blake, it's Will." 

"Ah, Will, come 'ave a cuppa tea with me." 

Although nervous about being alone with Mrs Blake, and guilty for leaving Tom all alone, he wandered barefoot to the kitchen, where Mrs Blake was waiting. She was standing by the teapot, wearing a dressing gown and a tight smile. According to the kitchen clock, it was just after nine. 

"Sit down, sit down," she gestured to the table, before turning to pour tea into two empty mugs. "D'ya take sugar, Will?" 

"Um, no thank you, Mrs Blake," Will mumbled, sinking into the chair closest to the door. 

"Just milk? Me too. You wouldn't think it, but I've never 'ad much of a sweet tooth."

She brought both cups over to the table, taking the seat opposite Will. 

"Thank you," he smiled at her as she slid the cup over to him. 

"No problem, love," she blew at the steaming surface of her own drink, "Sleep well?" 

"Uh, yes, thank you," he nodded perhaps a little excessively. 

"Will…" she let go of her cup and clasped her hands in front of her on the table. Her wedding ring still shone gold. "I- I don't quite know 'ow to say this, so I'm just gonna say it. Please don't hurt my Tom." 

Will felt himself pale, feeling as if he were being accused. "I- What do you mean, Mrs Blake?" 

She unclasped her hands, tapping a quick rhythm on the table with her nails, before knotting her fingers together again. "Look, I- I don't 'ave a problem with it, alright? I just… I only popped me 'ead 'round to ask what you wan'ed for breakfast. Weren't expecting you to be all… cuddled up, I s'pose." She sighed. 

"No, it's- it's not what you think," Will tried to stammer. Deny, deny, deny. That was the best way to keep them safe, to keep Tom safe. 

"Will," she gave a tired smile, "You don't have ta lie," she rubbed one eye with the heel of her hand, "'M just surprised I didn't see it sooner."

"I- Mrs Blake, please-" 

"Will," she said again. She reached both hands across the table and covered one of his, "I just want my boy to be happy," she looked him directly in the eye, "An' I want  _ you  _ to be happy too."

Will inhaled shakily, surprised by the hot tears suddenly pricking his eyes. His heart was racing as if he'd been running, and had now been caught. Mrs Blake smiled at him softly. 

"Just be careful with 'im," she whispered, "I think we both know it's dangerous to be… what you are. 'specially 'round 'ere." 

Swallowing thickly, he nodded, dropping his gaze to where Mrs Blake's hands covered his own. 

"Will," she murmured again, squeezing his fingers, "I'm just glad it's you." 

*

He returned to Mabel’s around midday, with Tom promising to join him later. As he'd left, he and Mrs Blake had shared an understanding nod, and he felt less anxious about hugging Tom goodbye. 

"It's me!" he called as he unlocked the door. The cottage was quiet and still, and for a moment, he worried that something awry had happened. 

He found his aunt asleep in her favourite chair in the living room, the television still humming quietly in the background. Moving slowly, so as not to startle her, he switched off the TV and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. 

"Mabel," he said softly, shaking her lightly. 

Her eyes fluttered open, blinking fast at the daylight. "Oh, Will," she stretched, "You're back," Will helped her to her feet, "Did you have a nice time?" 

"Yes auntie," he caught her shawl as it slipped off one of her shoulders, "I did." 

"Good, good," she clicked her back, "Ahh." 

"Did you sleep in that chair all night?" Will asked, turning towards the kitchen to make them both a hot drink. 

"Must've," she muttered, rubbing her face and following him. 

"Mm," Will frowned disapprovingly and filled up the kettle. 

"Oh, Will," Mabel said as she sank into a chair, "Your mother rang again last night, while you were out."

"Did she? What did she want?" 

"She-" Mabel hesitated, looking at the kitchen tiles rather than at Will's face, "Well she's calling back this afternoon, so don't go disappearing again." 

"I won't," he assured her. He placed the kettle on the stove top, "Tom's coming over in a bit though."

She laughed at that. "You pair are ridiculous," she said fondly, "You'd think you were made of magnets. I'm not sure  _ what  _ you're going to do when-" 

"No," Will cut her off sharply, "I'm not sure either."

*

Will's mother called at exactly two o'clock, and Will reluctantly picked up. 

"Hello?" 

"Will?" 

"Yes, it's me, Mum." 

They hadn't spoken since their argument on the day Eliza had given birth, and although molten anger had cooled, it lay as cold resentment in Will's stomach. 

"Good, how've you been" 

"I've been fine."

"Apparently you abandoned your aunt last night," she sounded even sharper through the receiver, "Haven't kicked the old habits after all, then?" 

"I was with a friend," he said stiffly, already feeling a hot blush creeping up his neck. 

"Hm."

"How's everything at home?" he forced out, wanting to shift the attention as quickly as possible. 

"Well that's what I called to talk about. We're all fine, don't worry," she quickly reassured him, before delivering the devastating blow, "Eliza's heading home in a few days, they all are, so we can pick you up at the weekend."

Will felt like a giant in a tiny room. His hands were disproportionate to his body, and he thought he might crush the phone in his fingers. The television across the room swam before his eyes. 

"The weekend?" he croaked,  _ "This  _ weekend?" 

"Yes Will, this weekend." 

"What day is it today?" he asked, furrowing his brow as he tried to remember - but each morning and evening bled into the other in his memory. There was an equal chance of it being Tuesday, or it being Friday. Possibly even both at the same time. 

"It's Wednesday, Will," he could hear his mother's frown, concerned, "Are you alright? You haven't taken anything, have you?" 

"No," he murmured, each word feeling heavy on the air, "It's just easy to lose track of time out here."

"Well then! You'll be home before you know it!" 

"Can't-" he fumbled for words, words that would put more distance between him and his journey home, "Can't I stay 'til next week?" 

"No, you're coming home this weekend. Your father and I have barely seen you this summer, and soon you'll be off to university again," she paused a moment, and sighed, "I'm sorry if I've been… a little harsh with you. Maybe… Maybe we went about this thing all wrong. It's just… You're still my little boy, Will. And it would be nice to see you. Properly."

"Mum…" Will's head felt like it was split in two: one side searching for ways he might stay, and the other suddenly desperate for his mother. 

"I'm glad you've had a nice time with your aunt," she continued, "But it's time to come  _ home." _

This was a fight he knew he wouldn't win. Because it wasn't a fight, not really. His mother wanted him back, and for the first time in so long, he wanted to see his mother too. What else was there for him to say? 

"Alright," he murmured, "Alright." 

"We'll get you on Sunday. So make sure you're all packed and ready."

"I will, Mum. See you then." 

"See you soon, Will." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed this chapter, as always!
> 
> as this fic draws ever closer to its end, im honestly blown away by the support ive received while writing it. ive never written anything of this magnitude, and im often worried it's not good enough. but every kind comment and kudos has truly been enough to make my day each time; thank you <3
> 
> as always feel free to leave comments and find me elsewhere. stay safe!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!
> 
> originally i was gna have this as one big last chapter, followed by an epilogue. but i decided to split it into two smaller chapters, bc im too suspicious to finish on chapter 13
> 
> im worried that this chapter's a bit all over the place, but i hope you enjoy it all the same!

Tom arrived a little before tea time, carrying a cherry pie that he'd made with his mother. He was upbeat when Will answered the door, his smile fading quickly as he saw the dour expression tattooed onto Will's face. 

"What is it?" he asked quietly, stepping inside. 

"I'm-" Will swallowed, "I'm going home this weekend." 

The pie nearly slipped from Tom's hands, with them both instinctively grabbing it at the last second. 

"You're…" Tom shook his head, as if the words were jumbling inside it,  _ "This _ weekend?"

Will bit the inside of his cheek and nodded. 

"Shit," Tom breathed, bright countenance lost to the jaws of inevitable bad news. 

"Is that Tom Blake I hear?" Mabel called from the kitchen as Tom slipped off his boots. 

Will held the pie firmly, its heat and smell being the main things tying him to that moment. "Yes," he said, "Tom's here." 

"Alright, Mabel?" Tom half-smiled as Mabel appeared in the doorway. 

"I'm wonderful, thank you Tom. Will you be staying for tea?" She was beaming as if nothing was wrong. As if the world weren't fracturing into tiny fragments that Will couldn't glue back together. 

"He will," Will answered for Tom, "In fact, I think he'll be staying the night." 

At this, Tom looked at him in surprise. But he didn't object, didn't deny it. Instead he took the pie from Will and held it out proudly before Mabel. "I made us this. For puddin'." 

"Oh, how lovely!" 

They continued chatting and Will half listened, feeling too despondent to be fully present. He knew he should be treasuring each moment he had left here, soaking up the presence of Mabel, and Tom, and the house with a mixture of childhood memories and a woman he never met embedded into the walls. But he felt like a man thirsting for water as he drowned in the ocean. There was so much, so much, and still not enough. 

He watched them talk, animated and engaged, and remembered that he was just a visitor to their world. This was  _ their  _ village, and he was an outsider, an interloper. Perhaps his visit had drawn them together, but the fact was that when Will left, they would still have each other. They would still be talking, animated and engaged, after he had gone. In that instant, he understood what it must feel like to be a ghost. 

If this - the village, the house, his aunt, _ Tom  _ \- was life, then Will was going to die in the worst way; knowing what joys he  _ could've _ had, if only the earth had spun slightly different on its axis. 

The three of them cooked dinner together - soup again - with Mabel trying her hardest to lift up their spirits. She almost succeeded with Tom, who briefly forgot that Will was going away, and that this state of eudaimonia could not last. But Will, so desperate as he was to cling to this moment, couldn't lose himself in it, for fear that he may never return. 

"Will," she sighed as they tucked into the meal, "You're acting like it's the end of the world."

_ Isn't it?  _ Will thought dramatically.  _ Is this not how the people of Pompeii must have felt at Vesuvius' first rumble? Feeling the weight of both their deaths, and the inevitability of it in equal measure?  _

He just shrugged his shoulders in response, eyes trained on his food. There was little point in arguing about the end of the world with a woman who had already watched it finish once. 

"Well it kinda feels like it  _ is,"  _ Tom said, pulling apart a slice of bread. 

Mabel chuckled at this, and blew lightly on her soup. "That's the trouble with being young," she murmured, "You feel like the world lives and dies with you." 

Will felt his lip twitch with indignance, shrunk down once more by his youth - and how could he be so young, yet feel so old? In a single moment, he felt each day he had lived, and it was oh so heavy. How could anyone carry more weight than him? Was that not the world pressing down on his back? 

"Maybe," Tom conceded with a shrug, "But I think sometimes we're right."

Mabel laughed again. "Perhaps you are! Perhaps the world ends each night when we fall asleep, and rebuilds itself again in the morning."

"Then how can you call it an ending?" Will asked, looking up now, "If it only starts again tomorrow?" 

At this, Mabel beamed. "Isn't that how life works?" she swirled her bread in her soup, around and around, "Always moving in circles." 

"So?" Will frowned. 

She studied him almost sympathetically as she chewed at her bread, reminding Will of an old witch in a fairy tale.  _ "So,"  _ she said, "Just because something  _ looks _ like the end, doesn't mean it's over," she paused, glancing at the window, where the sun was slowly tempering the sky from a pale blue to a vivid orange, "The first time night fell in the Garden of Eden, do you think Adam and Eve thought the world was ending? That the first time they fell asleep, they knew whether or not they would wake up?" 

Will picked up his spoon and stirred his soup, tracking a slice of carrot as it moved anticlockwise around the edge of the bowl. He thought back to what Tom had said in the field on his birthday, that the two of them would always end up back here. Eventually. And he thought of the plate on Tom's bedside, now fixed so that its edge ran almost smoothly in a circle. How his aunt's plate had smashed, to be rebuilt anew. How its story hadn't finished with its ending. 

"This soup's bloody brilliant," Tom piped up, cheeks stuffed with bread. 

And Will looked at him. Really looked. He counted each eyelash that feathered lightly around the pale blue of Tom's eyes. He noticed the beginnings of a moustache clinging to Tom's upper lip. He plotted a small number of freckles, dotted over Tom's nose, that had darkened with each day of summer sunlight. And when Tom met his gaze and gave him a confused smile, he felt it like an explosion all around him, entirely within him. 

Love. It deafened. It soothed.  _ Love,  _ he thought, just  _ love.  _

But what did love  _ mean?  _ Was it a feeling, a desperation, a warmth that spread itself over the chest and the heart and the stomach? Was it a part of the body, as yet undiscovered by science? Did it pump alongside the blood in the veins? Was love a place, a house made into a home? Or was it a choice? Was love the decision, the  _ promise,  _ to always come back? 

After dinner, they ate the cherry pie that Tom had brought with vanilla ice cream they found buried at the back of the freezer. Mabel proposed a drink, before remembering she had no alcohol in the house. The three of them poured orange juice into wine glasses, and sipped it slowly. 

"To us," Mabel raised her glass in a toast. 

"To us," Will and Tom echoed, and the clink of their glasses was melodic and beautiful. 

*

"I can't believe you're goin' so soon," Tom murmured as they lay together in Will's bed. 

They had gone up to bed early, not long after Tom had phoned his mother to tell her he was staying. He had stepped into a pair of Will's pyjamas and they had hurried through tooth brushing and face washing, to sooner jump under the covers and feel each other's heat. Will's bed was wider than Tom's, meaning they didn't have to press so close, but they did anyway, lying chest to chest once again. 

All evening, Will had felt fit to burst with the everything that had flooded his system while he'd gazed at Tom. The question of love, perhaps the only question that really mattered, beat under his breast bone next to his heart, and he wondered if Tom could feel it too. Whether they matched on the inside. 

(Was that love? Being the same?) 

"I can't believe it," Tom murmured again, tracing Will's lips with his thumb before pressing a light kiss there, as if sealing in his touch. 

"I know," Will sighed, resting his hand on Tom's hip bone. He wanted to remind himself that his lover was solid in his hands. More than an imagining. 

It was strange to think of himself as having existed before he met Tom. He couldn't remember who he had been, what he'd believed, how he had behaved. Any remembrance he had seemed to him like that of another person, like memories inherited through dreams. And he was terrified, too, to imagine what he would be after he left. It felt as if his whole personhood was bookended by this summer, this village, and that when he was gone, he would become a shallow silhouette, not quite there if he was not before the eyes of his lover. 

In the same way, he couldn't think of Tom without him. Despite knowing much of Tom's life from stories, and learning him through the touch of his skin, it seemed that none of that was real when compared with the vibrance of the present. It was as if, in meeting, they'd invented each other. As if, in love, they'd become God. 

"What if you just… stayed?" Tom asked in the dark, fingers finding the pulse in Will's neck. 

"I  _ can't,"  _ he pressed a kiss to Tom's forehead, "You know I can't.". 

"But let's pretend that you could, just for a bit," Tom insisted, ghosting his touch over Will's throat, feeling the bob of his Adam's apple, "You'd live here, still, and I could visit ya every day. Or you'd visit me. And- And we could get jobs, couldn't we? Like, in the shop, or- or even, we could reopen the bakery, tell Mum not to sell it," he swallowed, "An' we'd be happy, wouldn't we?" 

Will closed his eyes and imagined it - a  _ life _ here, instead of just a holiday. Melting into village life, melting himself into Tom. 

"Go to sleep," he murmured, running his fingers through Tom's hair, "Don't waste your dreams on me."

*

Time has a habit of speeding up, just at the moment you wish it would slow down. It was as if life, noticing the end was in sight, had taken to running, rather than walking, so that it might reach the finish line sooner. Will resented it, the way his heart beat double time, and how the clock seemed to jump forward two minutes for every one that passed. 

Upon waking on Thursday morning, he had decided that they were to act as if he weren't leaving so soon. As if their love affair had no expiry date. Tom seemed a little reluctant, but ultimately agreed, posturing that pretending everything was normal might make it hurt a little less. 

They'd then lost themselves in morning arousal, keeping quiet so as not to wake Mabel, before running a bath and washing together, Tom's back slotted against Will's breast. Will found unspeakable joy in shampooing Tom's hair, rubbing soap between his shoulders in the space that Tom normally couldn't reach. 

(Was that love? Washing each other's backs in the places they couldn't reach? Becoming extensions of the other, taking care of the parts they might never see of themselves?) 

Of course, pretending that nothing had changed made it all the more obvious that everything had. They spent almost every moment with each other, not mentioning Will's imminent departure, but feeling it in every touch, every movement, every breath. After all, their relationship had been constantly haunted by the spectre of the future. It was difficult to ignore it only now, when it was breathing so raggedly down their necks. 

On Thursday, after bathing, they returned to Tom's empty house, and played that they lived together again. They washed the floors, and did the laundry, and drank wine from the bottle. Midafternoon, they'd fallen into a drunken slumber on the sofa, Myrtle curled up on the floor beside them, and only awoke when Mrs Blake returned. They both silently cursed the hour of sleep as more time wasted, but supposed that it was better than sleeping alone. 

That evening they ate two dinners: one at the Blakes', and a second when they returned to Mabel’s. 

On Friday, they took the bus into town, so that Will could replace Mabel's dictionary. They sat at the back of the bus, sharing a smoke. Will hooked his little finger around Tom's. 

They visited Leslie's record shop first. It was as empty and messy as it had been before, but this time, Leslie seemed secretly pleased to see them. 

"Back for that Humperdinck?" he smirked at Will. 

"Perhaps," Will found himself laughing, more at the fact Leslie had remembered him than anything else. 

"Well," Leslie raised an eyebrow, "Someone's found their voice."

Tom and Leslie made idle chat as they sifted through boxes of records. Again, Will found little to his taste, although he couldn't help but grin when he found Engelbert Humperdinck's  _ Release Me.  _ When he found  _ it, _ his stomach filled with excited butterflies. Hiding the record behind his leg as he walked past Tom, he strode over to Leslie and placed the LP proudly on the counter. 

"Beach Boys?" Leslie asked, picking it up to study it. 

At this, Tom turned to look, frowning in confusion.  _ "Pet Sounds?" _ he glanced at Will like this might all be a joke. 

"Yes," he quirked his lip into a smile. He hoped Tom would see it, would relish in it the way that he did - the purposeful symmetry in Will's actions. The orchestrated rhyme of his album choice. 

Tom grinned softly. "But you hate the Beach Boys." 

At this, Will just shrugged, before paying for the record, and holding it delicately, like it was his own piece of Tom Blake. 

That evening, they danced around the living room with Mabel again, first to Will's new LP, then to a shared favourite: Please Please Me. Will laughed until his ribs ached, smiled so much that he worried his teeth might fall out. He didn't think he'd have minded if they had, in that moment, and scattered across Mabel's floor. He envisioned the three of them kneeling to collect them, falling about with manic giggling as they cupped parts of Will in their palms. 

They lay about, exhausted by themselves, when the second side of the record came to a finish. Mabel in her chair, Tom and Will on the sofa, catching their breath between contented chuckles. 

"How would you celebrate the end of the world?" Tom asked suddenly, his mind apparently still whirring on the conversation from the evening before. 

"Celebrate?" Will frowned. What an odd choice of words. To celebrate was to glorify, to elevate, to revere. Where was the glory in the end of the world? 

"Yeah, y'know, like," Tom picked at a loose thread on the sofa, "If you found out the Soviets were droppin' a bomb on us tomorrow, or that Judgement Day was comin', what would you do?" 

"Those are two very different situations," Will snorted slightly, picturing Brezhenv and Jesus standing side by side - perhaps both pressing the big red button at the same time. 

"Are they, though?" Tom glanced sideways at him, "I mean, what if they were the same?" 

With a small cough, Mabel quietly excused herself, quickly climbing the stairs and not returning. Will wondered if she sensed the direction of the conversation, if she knew each place it might end. 

"Okay, so what if they were? Why should we celebrate the end of all we know? D'ya think Pompeii celebrated the eruption of Vesuvius?" 

"Well that's the thing, innit," Tom turned to study him affectionately, "Would they, if they'd known?" 

"No," Will answered instantly. It was obvious to him, to anyone. If faced with your own demise, most people would make the same choice. "They'd run."

"Then," Tom took hold of Will's hand, cradling it in both of his, "Why don't we?" 

"What?" 

"We could run away!" Tom whispered excitedly, clutching at Will's hand, "You an' me. 'stead of you goin' home. We could go away somewhere, we could-" 

"For Christ's sake Tom, we're not  _ kids!" _ Will hissed, angry at the very suggestion and how tempting it sounded, "I can't just… just drop everything! Neither can you!" 

"What 'everything'?" Tom released Will's hand and threw his own arms up in disbelief, "What do I got here? Why should-" 

"Your family!" Will stared at Tom, feeling like he was staring at a madman. Didn't he understand what  _ good  _ he had here? "Your mother, and your brother, and your dog-" 

"They'd still be here if I left! I can always come back-" 

"You can  _ stay,  _ is what you can do! I won't have you… leaving all this for me, I can't ask that. And you can't ask the same of me." 

"Can't I?" Tom was quiet now, any small amount of stubborn rage quickly burned out. 

"No," Will squared his shoulders, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the ground, "You can't." 

He heard Tom exhale, shift his weight where he sat. Tom moved to stand up, and changed his mind again, falling back against the sofa. 

"Will you ever come back?" he asked, and his voice was small. It was a gentle question, but it was still sharp. It still pricked Will in the chest, enough to draw blood. 

Will let his head fall into his hands. His skull had become a teacup in which a tempest now raged - big and fast and incomprehensible. Perhaps if Tom had asked at another moment, the answer would have been so much clearer. Perhaps if he'd asked at another time, the answer would have been a definitive  _ yes.  _

"I don't know," he sighed, "I just… I don't know."

If he'd have looked at Tom then, lifted his head from his own palms and  _ looked,  _ the answer would have been obvious. For Tom's eyes shone with a film of tears, and would have pierced through the fog of Will's doubt like twin beams of a lighthouse. If he'd  _ seen  _ Tom's face, so beautiful and open and honest, he'd have been awash with love once more. He'd have realised that love was a decision. Love was  _ choosing  _ to slot the pieces of the plate back together. Love was a choice. 

But he didn't look, so he didn't see, and he didn't realise. And they stayed there in silence until Tom went up to bed. When Will joined him, Tom pretended to be asleep. 

*

It rained all of Saturday, as if the sky were mourning too. They spent most of the day in bed, quietly apologising to each other for the night before, until Mabel knocked on the door and ordered them to eat. They helped each other dress, although neither of them really needed it. More than anything, they slowed each other down, darting to press kisses to exposed skin as they did up buttons. Tom borrowed Will's clothes, having to cuff the jeans, and roll up the sleeves of the jumper. Will's body sang with how much he adored Tom at that moment, seeing cloth covering Tom's skin in the same places it had covered Will's. 

Mabel sat with them at the kitchen table, sewing and humming to herself as they ate a midafternoon brunch of toast. She didn't say much to either of them, gifting them the quiet, for their own weighty conversations. She was as aware as they were that each word carried with it an aching uncertainty; would this be the last time Tom asked Will to pass the butter? 

Will had often thought about the weight of words, the importance of choosing the right ones. Most of his life, he'd felt that it wasn't his area of expertise - not the spoken word, at least. When he'd gifted Tom that dictionary with the words "handsome", "funny", "smart" circled, he was sure that those were the right words to choose. They described Tom, after all, and what could be more important than that? But now, the right words had become, "d'you want a cuppa?" and, "let me help," and, "stay", "stay",  _ "stay". _

The right words were "I'll come back, I promise," but Will wasn't sure how to say them. 

They returned to Will's bed, fully clothed, and lay there for a while. 

"I should probably start packing," Will murmured, looking at Tom as he fidgeted with the sleeves of his jumper. 

"Hmm," Tom nodded slightly, lying still as Will got up and reached under the bed for his suitcase. 

"D'you wanna put the radio on?" he asked, beginning to sift through the drawers. 

Without a word, Tom rolled across to the bedside table and clicked the radio on. He surprised Will by settling on a classical station, a soft piano sonata filling the room. Then he noticed the small stack of paperbacks that stood next to the radio. Almost all of them had remained untouched, Will realised, aside from  _ Giovanni's Room,  _ which he still hadn't finished. Tom picked up that book from the top of the pile, turning it over in his hands. 

"These yours?" he held it up for Will to see. 

Folding a set of pyjamas into his suitcase, Will nodded. It suddenly felt odd to see Tom next to his books, for they were two worlds that hadn't yet collided. That summer, instead of burying his head between the pages of fiction, he'd lost himself in the real stories of Tom Blake and all that he carried with him. 

Tom studied the book a little longer, as if, perhaps, it were a foreign object. Then he said, "Read to me." Not a request, but a demand. 

"What, now?" Will scoffed, "The whole thing?" 

"No, you sod," Tom rolled his eyes, "Just the bit you're up to," he paused, watching Will hesitate, "I wanna hear you talk."

"I talk anyway," Will chuckled, but he complied, sitting back on the bed next to Tom and taking the book. 

He opened it up to where he'd stopped reading, place marked by the paper Tom had written his phone number on. A little embarrassed, he slid the paper to the back of the book. Tom didn't say anything, but he gave a surprised laugh, deep in his throat, before wrapping his fingers around Will's bicep. 

Will scanned the page to remind himself where he'd got to. It seemed that David was close to leaving Giovanni, was tired of the room in which they lived, and everything it represented. He cleared his throat. 

_ "'Perhaps,' I said - I scarcely knew what I was saying - 'we could go to the country. Or to Spain.'  _

_ 'Ah,' he said, lightly, 'you are lonely for your mistress.' _

_ I was guilty and irritated and full of love and pain. I wanted to kick him and I wanted to take him in my arms.  _

_ 'That's no reason to go to Spain,' I said, sullenly. 'I'd just like to see it, that's all. This city is expensive.' _

_ 'Well,' he said, brightly, 'let us go to Spain, perhaps it will remind me of Italy.'  _

_ 'Would you rather go to Italy? Would you rather visit your home?'" _

At the word "home", Will swallowed thickly. Tom's grip tightened on his arm, like Will might suddenly slip away if he let go. 

_ "He smiled. 'I do not think I have a home there anymore.'  _

_ And then: 'No. I would not like to go to Italy - perhaps, after all, for the same reason you do not want to go to the United States.'  _

_ 'But I  _ am _ going to the United States,' I said, quickly. And he looked at me. 'I mean, I'm certainly going to go back there one of these days.' _

_ 'One of these days,' he said. 'Everything bad will happen - one of these days.'  _

_ 'Why is it bad?'" _

Will paused again, feeling an itch beside his nose. But when he moved to scratch it, it moved to his eyebrow, and then to his chin. Again and again it moved, like the knowing gaze of some unseen eye, recognising him in the words he spoke. Betraying him as David, and Tom, therefore, as Giovanni. When he finally caught up with the itch, just below his ear, no scratching could get rid of it; it had slipped under his skin. 

_ "He smiled, 'Why, you will go home and then you will find that home is not home any more. Then you will really be in trouble. As long as you stay here, you can always think: One day I will go home.' He played with his thumb and grinned. 'N'est-ce pas?'  _

_ 'Beautiful logic,' I said. 'You mean I have a home to go to as long as I don't go there?'  _

_ He laughed. 'Well, isn't it true? You don't have a home until you leave it and then, when you have left it, you never can go back.'" _

At this, Tom slipped the book from Will's now trembling hands, looking over the next line before closing it and laying it on the bed. And from memory, he recited the line as little more than a whisper: _"'I seem,' I said, 'to have heard this song before.'"_

Then he buried himself in Will's chest, arms tight around him, as if he were trying to catch the wave of anguish that had suddenly engulfed Will. Like his hold would be enough to dam the ocean that Will found himself drowning in. 

"Tom," he whispered, voice cracking, "I  _ want  _ to come back home."

Yes,  _ this _ was home. Not the house of his childhood where his parents still reigned. No, he had left there and realised that he couldn't call it home anymore. Home was here, with Tom, with his love. And he refused to simply leave it behind. 

"Then you will," Tom murmured, pressing a gentle kiss through Will's shirt, just above his heart, "You will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed!
> 
> this, obviously, included an extract from james baldwin's giovanni's room, from part two, chapter three. once again, i strongly recommend that book if you haven't already read it (i reread it the other week in three sittings)
> 
> stay safe <3


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay here it is! the last chapter before the epilogue!
> 
> this one was hard to write, especially because when the ending is so close, it's difficult not to rush to it. but also because saying goodbye is hard, and i certainly don't know how to do it
> 
> hope you enjoy

"D'you want  _ me  _ to hold the umbrella?" Will asked as Tom accidentally bumped him on the head for the fourth time. 

They were waiting for the bus in the rain, hoping to spend their final Saturday evening at the pub. It had been Will's idea. He'd pulled them up from the bed, brushed the creases from their shirts, and asked Tom if he'd be so kind as to accompany him for one last drink at the pub. Their holy land. 

"Don't worry, I've got it," Tom smiled sideways at him. 

The umbrella was one of Mabel's, borrowed from the dark depths of her cupboards. Now it hovered dangerously close to the top of Will's head, and he lightly pushed Tom's elbow up to raise it slightly higher. 

"Can you get the fags out my pocket?" Tom asked as he began to count change in his hand. 

Will knew by now that Tom always kept his cigarettes - or were they  _ their  _ cigarettes? - and his lighter in his front right pocket, where they were easiest to reach. Even in borrowed trousers, they still found their way home, and Will eased the box out of Tom's pocket. 

He took a cigarette in his mouth and lit it carefully with Tom's lighter. Taking a long drag, he slid the box and lighter back into Tom's pocket, before exhaling a huge cloud of smoke. He watched the rain pierce the cloud. 

"Open up," he said, placing the cigarette between Tom's lips. 

"Cheers," Tom mumbled around the fag, still sorting through his change. 

Will thought about offering to help, but he knew Tom would refuse it. Instead, he just watched him mouth numbers through the cigarette, frowning lightly. Will found himself struck by the intimacy of the moment - of seeing Tom as  _ himself, _ and not a cultivated version of himself. It was a little like seeing Tom as he prayed, eyes closed, heart open. With a heart made light by love, and equally burdened by the constant drawing on of time, Will allowed himself to treasure this moment in its simplicity and familiarity, and knew right then how he might come to revisit this vision again and again after he'd left. 

The spell was broken when Tom looked up at Will, turning him from untouchable voyeur to active participant. 

"Hold this for me?" he held out his handful of coins. 

Will took it, watching Tom use his now free hand to take the cigarette from his mouth and hold it delicately between finger and thumb. 

"What time is it?" Tom asked now, not looking at Will. 

"I don't know," Will answered instantly, although, in truth, he had enough of an idea. He just didn't want to say it - that it was nearly quarter to six - out loud. 

"Hmm," Tom flicked the ash from the end of the cigarette, "Me neither." He didn't look up at the clock on the church. 

On the bus, they were mostly quiet, listening to the rain on the windows, and the whine of the engine, and the hum of each other's bodies, which somehow seemed loudest of all. Tom hooked his ankle around the back of Will's calf, so that his solid shin pressed into Will's softer muscle. 

"Me dad used to bring us to the pub," Tom said as they exited the bus, "When we was kids, y'know?" 

Will nodded, having to bend his knees slightly to fit under the umbrella. They wandered over to the front door of the pub, where they could hear loud and deep shouts, and raucous laughter. There, they stopped a few moments, just beside the door, where yellow light pierced through the frosted glass of the window. 

Will waited for Tom to speak again, for it always felt like these things came with a story attached. But Tom only looked out into the rain, as if in it he could see a memory or two. Memories that belonged only to him, that he would not share, even with Will. And that was alright, Will thought. Sometimes a sentence was just a sentence. Sometimes Tom was just a man. 

Lauri was working at the bar when they entered, and she offered them both a shy smile. As they ordered - the same as they always ordered - Will wondered about telling her he was leaving. But what should she care? Would it mean anything to her at all? He had simply entered her life, in the vaguest sense, and would be leaving it again, just as quickly. These things happened all the time, after all. The circles of their lives had intersected so briefly, so gently, and would now diverge again. 

Despite the crowds in the pub tonight, they found their usual table in the corner empty, and sat down opposite each other, as always. Under the table, Will pressed his ankle against Tom's. 

"So," Tom took a short sip of his drink, made up mostly of the foam on top, "Tell me about yerself." He was grinning cheekily, but his eyes were darkened by the shadow of tomorrow. 

Will laughed, remembering that first visit to the pub. How afraid he had been of Tom knowing him. How summer, back then, seemed like it might spill into forever. 

"What would you like to know?" he asked, taking a long swig of his lager. 

"Oh, y'know," Tom shrugged a shoulder and glanced around the pub. Will could feel his leg bouncing anxiously under the table. He turned his eyes back on Will. "Everythin'." 

And even now, Will felt like he was under a microscope, like Tom could see everyone millimeter of him, and still wanted to look further. What was there to him that Tom didn't already know? How could he slice himself so that Tom saw him fully? Inside and out? 

"I call my sister Lizzy," he travelled a line in the grain of the table with his finger, up and down, "When we were little, she'd pretend to be the queen," he paused to laugh, unsure of where these memories were suddenly flowing from, for he barely even thought on them. Now, it seemed, they were pieces of gold. "I'd be a soldier, protecting our kingdom."

"Yeah?" Tom grinned fondly, rubbing his thumb through the condensation on his glass. 

Will nodded with a smile, a little lost in memories of his childhood. Memories he hardly recalled, and certainly never shared. 

"Sometimes I play that with Susie now," he murmured, looking down at his drink but seeing instead the face of his niece, "Although she prefers playing tea parties."

"I always forget you're an uncle," Tom said, brow slightly furrowed in disbelief, "Forget that you… Well, that you got a life away from 'ere."

There it was again. That shadow of the future, tomorrow leering over them. 

"Hmm," Will leaned back in his chair, as if to take in as much of Tom as he could with one look. He thought again of how little he remembered of himself before he'd met Tom, how small and insignificant his life away from here felt in comparison to the everything he'd lived here. 

And he thought on how unknown the future seemed, how amorphous, how mutable. 

His hands rested on the table, and across from him, so did Tom's. Their hands that had created each other. Their godly hands. The hands they could take each other apart with, and then quickly put them back together. 

Could Will not shape his future with these hands? Could he not mould it like clay into the life he wanted, the life where he might be happy? 

Slowly, he slid one hand across the table towards Tom's. The simple act of reaching for something. The act of knowing what he wanted, and moving to take it. He touched the tip of his index finger to Tom's. And Tom smiled, like he completely understood. 

*

"Je voudrais deux bières, s'il te plaît." 

"Excuse me?" 

Will was leaning heavily against the bar, finding his blood weighed down and dizzied by drink. Lauri was staring at him, as if he were insane. 

"Je- Did I say it right? Je voudrais deux bières," he half-slurred, trying to recall any French that he might have learned once. "Merci?" 

Lauri gave a nervous laugh. "You are mocking me." 

"No! No, I swear, I-" he slumped a little, chin falling into his palm, "I'm leaving." 

She frowned, walking closer to him. "Leaving? But you were ordering more-" 

"No, not the pub, I- I mean, I'm going home," a burp struggled towards his mouth but he swallowed it back, "I'm not from here."

"Oh," she reached for two glasses and placed them on the bar, empty, "Me neither."

"Mm," Will nodded, "I just- I wanted to tell you. Cuz you're nice. And I thought- I thought it might be nice to say goodbye."

"I see," she started to fill up one glass. "You seem… sad to be leaving. Is going home not… good?" 

Will shrugged a shoulder, fumbling in his pocket for change. "It's- Well, it doesn't feel like home anymore."

"Hmm," she placed the full glass in front of him and started on the second, "I'm sorry to hear that."

"I think," he mumbled, starting to place coins on the bar, "I think I might come back, y'know?" 

"Hm?" 

"Yeah, yeah," he nodded vigorously, although it was more to himself now, "I'll come back next year."

"Well," she gave him a small smile and pushed both glasses towards him, "I will see you then." 

"Do you not miss home?" he asked suddenly, only after realising the invasion his question posed, and retroactively biting his tongue. 

_"This_ _is_ my home," she shrugged, and walked away to serve another customer, leaving his money lying on the bar. 

*

When they left, high spirited and drowsy from drink, the rain had let up. The air was left feeling damp and green, if such a word could be used to describe the night. They stumbled to the bus stop with arms slung over each other's shoulders, Tom using the umbrella like a walking cane. Each step felt heavy. Even being so merry as he was, Will noticed it. How the ground wanted to call him closer with each footstep away from the pub, from their holy land.

They flopped onto the bench beside each other, and gave synchronised cries of disgust when they realised how wet the wood was. This quickly dissipated into uncontrollable laughter, forcing its way out from between ribs. It seemed that, even in the midst of their unavoidable tragedy, drunken laughter could still wind its way around them - and for that moment, they were weightless. Two young men lost in the cadence of their shared giggling. A welcome ache in their sides that can only come from joy. 

When they spoke to each other, the words made little sense, slurring and spilling. Most of what they said, Will couldn't understand. He clearly made out an "I love you," but he wasn't sure which of them had said it; him, or Tom, or their shared voice, rising out of their shared throat, through their shared lips. 

On the bus, they smoked quietly. Any words seemed meaningless when they could just look at each other. Soaking each other in through their eyes. Inhaling the smoke the other exhaled.

Back in the village, they walked with their little fingers linked, mostly safe under the cover of the dark, but still cautious. Will wondered almost absently whether he might see the village so dark again. 

For his determination to take hold of the future and reshape it had been drowned in each of his drinks, leaving him only with that uncertainty again. His hands, and every other part of him, were afraid. Afraid of what it might cost. How it might burn. 

At Mabel's, they found her asleep in front of the telly, quietly snoring as the news at ten droned on. 

"Auntie," Will whispered, as Tom switched off the TV, "We're back."

She half awoke, blinking at him twice, mumbling his name, before shifting in her seat and drifting away again. Smiling fondly, Will draped a light blanket over her, like a parent covering a sleeping child. With another twinge of sadness, he realised that he wouldn't be here to do this tomorrow. 

"Let's go 'ave a smoke," Tom whispered, tugging at his hand. 

They slipped out to the garden and found a place to stand under the wisteria tree. Will watched as Tom fumbled inside his pocket, clumsily pulling out the carton of cigarettes in a way that made his lighter fall to the ground. They both knelt at the same time to pick it up, foreheads clashing in a way that might bruise. How funny, Will thought, that perhaps the most lasting thing they would have of each other was a bump on the head. 

Still crouching, like they were children playing hide and seek, Tom opened up the box. He sighed. 

"Last one," he grumbled, holding up the offending item. 

"Yes," Will said, "It is." 

Tom allowed Will to light it as he held it between his own lips, and they passed it back and forth instead of conversation. 

"What d'you reckon you're gonna do when you get back then?" Tom asked quietly, watching the cigarette burn out between his fingers. 

Will stood up, shaking out the cramp in his legs. Tom stubbed out the cigarette in the grass and followed him up. They both regarded the question in silence, something that, up until then, had seemed forbidden to speak about. 

"I don't know," Will said at last. He didn't want to think about it, his life without Tom to look forward to. The dull grey of his parents' house. The loneliness. He felt ill. 

Tom moved suddenly, in a movement Will couldn't quite see. In the dark, he pressed something hard and warm into Will's palm, and all at once he understood. 

"I can't take this, Tom," he tried to push it back into Tom's hand. 

"Yes you can," Tom closed Will's fingers around it, and closed his fingers over Will's. 

"No, I really can't-" 

"You can, cuz I'm givin' it to ya." 

The ring was hard and warm in his hand, carrying with it Tom's own heat. He felt the letter 'B' pressing against his skin like a brand; B for Blake. 

"But it's yours," he said in a small voice, searching for Tom's face in the dim light, "What if you want it back?" 

Tom moved forward and pushed his face against Will's, so that his nose was resting in Will's cheek. His eyelashes fluttered gently over Will's skin, like the careful touch of a butterflies wing. "Then I guess you'll have to come back and give it me."

*

Will found himself sleeping fitfully. The alcohol in his system had made him numb, and drowsy, but not drowsy enough to sleep, not numb enough to stop worrying. He tossed and turned, drifting and waking, and being unable to tell the dream from reality. He saw Tom leaving him in the night, and he saw Tom smoking at the window. He saw Tom curled into the sheets like a frightened child, and he saw Tom watching him with eyes that switched from cold to loving, back and forth.

Beside him, Tom slept like a log. 

Some time around dawn, as the first peak of sunlight pierced the thin curtains, he turned to his bedside table, where he had placed Tom's ring. It shimmered gold at the touch of light. He reached out to it and touched it with a finger, suddenly despairing at the fact that it was now cold.

It had lost all of Tom's warmth! The night had sapped its heat, leaving it feeling like cool gunmetal. Will wanted to cry then, holding the small gold circle in his palm. Even though Tom slept next to him, it felt like he was gone, that he had abandoned Will in allowing the ring to go cold - or that Will had betrayed  _ him  _ by not keeping it warm. 

With it already warming against Will's skin, he rolled over to look at Tom, his back facing Will, and lightly pressed the metal against the back of Tom's neck. At the touch, Tom twitched slightly but did not wake. How long Will lay there with the ring against Tom's flesh, he didn't know. He just knew that he must keep it there, must allow it to drink in Tom's heat, and with it, Tom's spirit, and his love, and his faith. 

Only when he was satisfied that the ring had sampled enough of Tom for him to keep, to protect, he curled his fist around the metal, and swore to himself to never let it cool again. It was like this that he found a little sleep: ring housed firmly in his palm, and his forehead resting between Tom's shoulders. 

*

A few hours later, he awoke beside Tom for the final time, the hangover that pounded in his head immediately second to the overwhelming sense of love and loss that washed over him with the light of morning. It cut deep within him, it drowned him. He felt as if he were being eaten from the inside out. Cannibalized by his own love.

Tom was sleeping on his back, looking to the ceiling through closed eyelids. His hair curled on his forehead, and around the nape of his neck. He breathed softly, slowly, chest rising and falling in a reliable rhythm. Will lay his head lightly on Tom's chest to hear the beat of his heart, in the hopes that he might memorise it. 

Tom grunted, and opened an eye to look at him. Brilliant blue, still clouded by sleep. Will wondered if he might see Tom's dreams reflected there, but he only saw himself. 

"Morning," he rose to press a kiss to Tom's lips, and followed it with a second, for they were now in those dreaded final hours where everything weighed double. 

"Mm," Tom lifted a hand to rub his face, graceful even in hungover sleepiness. After wiping the sleep from his eyes, he gently cupped Will's cheek and gazed at him. His thumb grazed Will's cheekbone, and his eyes skimmed Will's lips, nose, forehead. He looked so happy and so sad in the same breath, in the same face, and Will craved to make it better. Tom exhaled deeply through his nose. "Why'd you do this to me?" he mumbled. 

"Do what?" Will frowned, turning his head to kiss Tom's palm, just where it met his wrist. 

Tom considered him for a moment, combing his fingers through the hair at Will's temple. "Make me so happy," he said, "Why'd you come here and make me love you? Why'd you come an' find me, only to leave again?" 

There it was again. The toothy bite of love and despair, sinking its jaws into his shoulder. The guilt of existing at God's whim, rather than your own. 

_ "You're _ the one who found  _ me,  _ remember?" he murmured, kissing Tom's cheek, "At the bus stop, in the rain. You're the one who made  _ me  _ love  _ you.  _

"Besides," he said, feeling suddenly as if he were being torn in half by Tom's gaze, "I'm coming back. See," he opened his palm to show Tom the ring, "I have to bring this back to you."

With a small smile, Tom leaned up to kiss him. The guilt was partially absolved. "Yeah, s'pose you do," he sighed, lying back down, "S'funny, innit?" he touched a finger to the ring, "How it's a circle."

Will sniffed a laugh. Yes, it was a circle of gold. A circle that started and ended with Blake. A circle that would lead him back here in the end. Will hoped his aunt had been right when she'd said that life moved in circles. Even the clock face was round, after all. Perhaps the world might end as he climbed into his father's Minor 1000. But it would begin again when he found his way home. A broken plate, eventually piecing itself back together again. 

They reluctantly climbed out of bed and got dressed, Tom slipping into spare clothes of his own that he'd brought with him. Will only felt a little sad that he was not leaving behind a jumper for Tom to wear, or any other small fragment of himself. But instead, as he finalised his packing, he pulled a book out from between his clothes and, after slipping out his bookmark, thrust it towards Tom. 

"Here," he said, pushing  _ Giovanni's Room  _ into Tom's hands, "Keep this."

"What?" Tom frowned at it, and then at him, "But you haven't finished it. Don't you wanna know how it ends?" 

Will closed his suitcase. "You'll just have to tell me how it ends when I get back." 

And Tom broke into one of his sunshine grins, fondly hitting him on the head with the book. 

They made their way downstairs with Will's things, Tom tucking the book into the front of his trousers. He left his suitcase next to the door, perhaps hoping it might leave without him. Mabel was already awake in the kitchen, having apparently slept in her chair all night. 

"Good morning boys," she smiled, wrapping her shawl closely around her shoulders. She sat at the table, three empty plates laid out, with a loaf of bread in the middle, ready to be toasted. There were also three mugs, each filled with hot tea. 

"Morning auntie," Will smiled briefly at her as he and Tom sat down. 

He was afraid to look at her, in case she could tear him open like a letter, and read everything he was trying to keep concealed. Mabel had a way of doing that, as if she knew everything Will felt inside out. It both terrified and comforted him - that he could have no secrets from this woman, that he didn't need to speak for her to know him. 

And he was afraid to look at her, too, because he felt guilty for leaving her. It was different from the guilt he felt at leaving Tom, who would be waiting for him to come back. It just felt more insidious to go, and to know that she  _ wouldn't  _ be waiting for his return. That she would stop laying the table in twos or threes. That she would go on as if he had never been there, and that he wished she wouldn't. He felt guilty for wanting her to miss him in the way that he was sure he would miss her. And to look at her felt like admitting to that guilt. 

"Did you sleep alright?" Tom asked her, reaching for two slices of bread and taking them over to the toaster, as if it were his own kitchen. 

"I  _ did,  _ thank you Tom," she smiled, cupping her drink in both hands, "Although it really is no good for my back." She rolled her shoulders and her bones clicked, as if to prove her point. 

And Will heard that click for a long time afterwards. Pottery clicking against pottery. Teeth clicking against teeth. Year clicking against year. 

She took a sip of her drink and looked at Will over her cup, "Are you ready for your long journey?" and he knew she didn't mean the drive home. 

He rolled his shoulders and let out a long breath. He glanced around the kitchen, its walls holding them close, like a hug, a home. He looked over the table at the small breakfast array, the plates and the bread, and the butter and jams. The tea in their mugs, still steaming warm, and the fixed plate in the centre, pride of place. 

He looked at Tom, leaning, beautiful, against the kitchen counter. Tom, whose face he was sure he'd memorised by now, but still worried he might forget. Tom, waiting for him here, his homing signal, his guiding light. In his hand, under the table, he squeezed the ring - B for Blake's, B for Belonging to Blake - and in his pocket, he felt the paper with Tom's phone number written on, although he knew the number off by heart. Tom, who he would be carrying with him. 

He looked at his aunt, allowing that guilt and self-pity to wash over him. She who seemed to know him better than his own mother did. Who had loved and lost, and who he so badly wanted to take care of in her simultaneous age and youth. He hoped that she would be alright on her own. He hoped that he would be alright without her. 

He thought again about his hands, Tom's hands, and how he would use them to make the future he wanted. How he would use them to hold onto the good that he had found. 

"I think so," he said, with perhaps more conviction than he felt. 

She smiled at him then, a sense of pride woven between her lips. "Good," she said, and stood up to make some toast. 

*

Saying goodbye to Tom was a bit like pulling out a stubborn tooth; it was drawn-out and painful, and they clung to each other like that final piece of sinew that refused to let go. 

They had agreed that he had to leave before Will's parents arrived, although Tom was loath to leave without Will, and Will hated the thought of watching him go. It was better than the alternative though, he supposed, of him being the one to disappear out of sight. Of having to watch Tom grow smaller through the back window of the car, and resist the urge to open the door and jump out. And now, at least, they could say their goodbyes in private. 

They held each other in the hall for a long while, Tom's head tucked under Will's chin as if he were seeking shelter. His fingers curled into the shirt covering the small of Will's back. Will found his own hands doing the same - gripping onto each other as if letting go meant their demise. 

The ring pressed against Will's thigh in his pocket, and it pressed against Tom too, where their bodies aligned so closely that they might disappear into one another. The book, on the other hand, residing in the front of Tom's trousers, acted more as a barrier, a sea wall. Stopping them as they rushed together. Keeping them safe from drowning as one. 

Will inhaled deeply, and squeezed Tom tighter, breathing in his smell, feeling the curves of his body. He wanted to remember Tom in every way possible; his voice, his touch, his scent, how he looked. How he felt. How he loved. He wanted to create a mental facsimile of his lover that was so vivid, he scarcely knew they were apart. 

As they held each other, neither of them spoke. Will would have liked to have said something, anything, to make Tom feel better about his leaving. He wanted to offer comfort, so that Tom's waiting would pass like water over stone. He wanted to say something that would reach into Tom and remove every ounce of hurt, to swallow that hurt down himself and take care of it for him. 

But when words are most important, it's difficult to know what to say. What if he got it wrong? Each potential sentence sat thickly in his throat, tasting slightly acidic and bitter. Anything he might have said -  _ I love you, I'll miss you, I'm sorry  _ \- seemed obvious anyway. He felt them rippling off Tom, and hoped Tom could catch it rolling off him too. That they were the same, on the inside. 

He didn't know how long they stood there, just holding each other, nor did he know who let go first. They just stepped away from each other, hands sliding down arms, to wrists, to hands, until they were only holding onto each other by their fingertips. 

"I'd better go," Tom said as he released Will's fingers, leaving them each marooned on their own islands. Separated by the gap of circumstance. A fractured plate, not quite ready to be fixed. "Mum'll think you've kidnapped me or somethin'."

"I wouldn't kidnap you," Will felt the corner of his lip twitch into a smile, "You talk too much."

They laughed lightly, and it rang melancholy. How it ached to not know when they might laugh together again. 

Will couldn't kiss Tom goodbye. He was convinced that at the moment their lips touched, they would stick together like glue. And, as nice as that sounded, Will knew that their story now relied on him leaving, giving him the chance to return. The same way that Jesus' divinity came, not from his birth, but from his death and resurrection. That was the ultimate display of love, was it not? Returning from the dead? 

"See ya then," Tom said, tilting his chin up and shuffling towards the door. 

Will pursed his lips and reached for the door handle. "Yeah," he nodded, pulling the door open, "See ya." 

He stood still in the doorway as Tom meandered down the front path, hands stuffed in his pockets. Will looked down at his suitcase where it rested by his feet; he didn't want to watch Tom's back, didn't want his lasting image of the nape of Tom's neck to be so stiff, so sad. At the end of the path, Tom stopped and turned. Will allowed himself to look up. For two beats, they regarded each other, soaking in every inch of the other's body. 

"I'll call you," Will blurted, like they had just been on a date, and would soon be seeing each other again. He promised it with wide eyes, so desperate for Tom to know that he wouldn't just let him go. 

With a small smile, Tom nodded. "You better," he said, "Or you'll be sorry." 

Then they held up a hand to each other, like two old friends who had awkwardly spotted each other at the pub. Nothing more to say to each other. Nothing that wouldn't hurt, anyway. And Tom left, and Will shut the door, so as not to watch him go, and that was that. The last sinew snapped. The tooth clinked against the porcelain of the sink. 

And it ached, and Will wouldn't let it. The earth shook beneath his feet, and he walked to the kitchen like he was fine. He was fine. 

He sat down opposite Mabel, as she nursed a cup of something warm and brown. She cast a careful eye over him, taking in each crack and fracture. 

"Was it the ending you were expecting?" she asked. 

Will blinked a few times, finding the ring in his pocket again. "It's not the end," he told her distantly, clutching the warm circle of gold. 

At this, Mabel smiled, although it rang a little sad. "No," she murmured, "No, you're right." 

He was struck by another thought, seeing her sat there, hunched over the table. She seemed so small, so fragile. The edge of her scar peaked out over the top of her nightdress. If she were to break, who would glue her back together? 

"Will you be okay on your own?" he asked, trying not to sound patronising. After all, it wasn't that she was particularly incapable. It was just that people tended towards each other, towards looking out for each other. It was instinctual, Will thought, to want to take care of her. She was another fragment of his own shattered plate. 

"Well," she looked down at the table, "I did just fine before you came, didn't I? I'll be fine." She sounded a little defensive, but below that was a timidness. As if she didn't quite believe it. 

And he wanted to ask her one million questions there and then, all of the things that hadn't struck him until that moment. He wanted to ask about love and loss, about Sandra and the wedding. He wanted to ask about  _ home, _ and how you knew when you had found it. He wanted to ask about, not growing  _ old,  _ but growing  _ up,  _ and how you knew when you were old enough to trust yourself, old enough to trust others. And he wanted to ask if he was welcome back, if he could return to her at the same time he returned to Tom. If he was allowed to find comfort in these walls. Each question washed through him, and he didn't ask a single one, for there was a knock at the door before any had a chance to spill out.

His heart sank a little, and he felt guilty as it did. Those were his parents, after all, knocking on the door. That was his family, coming back for him. 

Both Will and Mabel rose to answer the door, and there they were: Will's mother and father. Mabel embraced them both briefly before letting them inside. Will hugged his mother, feeling for a moment that maternal pull as she ran a palm over his back; but the feeling dissipated as quickly as it had blossomed when she released him and turned away, not allowing herself to look him over. He shook hands with his father. Neither of them could meet the other's eye. 

The four of them entered the kitchen and drank tea at the table. Mabel made polite conversation with Will's parents. They discussed the weather, and work, and distant relatives neither party had seen for a very long while. 

Talk turned to Eliza, and baby Jane. They were well, apparently, and settling in back in their own house. Will's mother remembered that Eliza had once had a doll she called Jane. 

Then conversation switched to Will, and he was asked various questions, to which he only gave short answers. 

"He's been wonderful this whole visit," Mabel reassured them, as Will's father eyed him suspiciously, "So very helpful." 

"How wonderful," Will's mother smiled tightly, keeping her gaze focused on a spot between Will and Mabel's shoulders - perhaps where she imagined they kept all their secrets. 

The next thing he knew, they were leaving, and how strange it was for Will to be leaving with them. He hugged his aunt goodbye, and she whispered in his ear, "You're allowed to be happy. Remember that." 

Then he found himself in the back of his father's Minor 1000, squashed against his suitcase as they made the drive to his parents' house. 

*

As soon as they arrived, Will dragged his suitcase upstairs. He wanted so desperately to be away from his parents' eyes, as even their lightest glances weighed heavy and oppressive. 

He left his suitcase outside his bedroom door, and instead of entering, he headed to Eliza's old room, which was vacant and unfeeling without her in it. Immediately, he walked over to the dressing table, which he knew housed some of his sister's jewellery - the souvenirs of childhood that she had preferred to leave behind. After searching through drawers and boxes, he found what he was looking for: a plain gold chain. Hastily, he undid the clasp and found Tom's ring in his pocket. Still warm. He slid the ring onto the chain and put it around his own neck, the chain forming its own colder circle against his skin. Carefully, he tucked the chain and the ring under his shirt, and when he caught his reflection in the mirror, he only saw a hint of gold. Under fabric, the ring nestled against his breast. 

When he walked into his own bedroom, he felt strange. The  _ room _ felt strange. He cast his eyes around, finding it somewhat familiar, yet foreign all the same. The blue bed sheets and dark green curtains, he knew, he remembered, but it seemed more like he'd seen them in reoccurring dreams than as a part of his life. It all seemed too dark to be real, as if he were underwater. 

Some of his things had been cleared away into boxes, his mother had explained, so that Susie wouldn't get to them. It would be interesting to know what these things were, he thought, to determine whether they were hidden away for their own protection, or out of parental shame. He opened his suitcase and took out his radio. After switching between stations several times, he settled on a Tom Jones song, and began to unpack his things. 

His clean clothes found their way into drawers and the wardrobe, while the dirty made a small pile on the floor. He sniffed each item of that group, trying to determine which clothes he had worn, and which Tom had borrowed. 

"Anything that needs washing?" his mother popped her head around the door, empty washing basket pressed to her hip. 

Will pointed to the pile that he'd set out, crumpled and messy. He hoped she wouldn't notice that some of the clothes smelled like Tom - sweetness, cherry, cigarette smoke, sunshine. 

She began to pick them up, placing them into the basket. "Oh," she paused, holding up a pair of trousers, "There's a hole in these." 

Will looked and saw a hole in the thigh, the same size as a cigarette end. He felt a warmth wash over him as he realised it was from the first trip to the pub with Tom, how he'd put out his fag on his trousers to distract himself from the magnitude of his feelings. The warmth gave way to an immediate ache, as he felt Tom's absence in every inch of his body. He and his trousers were one in the same - missing something that made them whole. Letting in the cold. 

"I'll have to fix that up for you," his mother continued, folding them into her basket. 

And although he wanted to tell her  _ no, don't fix it, _ he couldn't trust his voice not to tremble when he spoke. The prospect of her asking him what was wrong was infinitely worse than the idea of her trying to fill a boy-shaped cavern with her own form of maternal caring. So he said nothing, and she left. 

*

That evening they ate a roast dinner together, as the sun turned orange in the sky. If there was something he had to concede, Will thought, it was that he had missed his mother's cooking, and how much it tasted like being a child again. Perhaps, just for this evening, he would be content with being made young again. 

"Your sister wants you over tomorrow," his father said gruffly as he cut into his potato. 

"Yes, for lunch," his mother added, taking a drink of water. 

"Sounds good," Will nodded, mouth stuffed with chicken.

"Don't speak with your mouth full," his mother frowned over her glass. 

They ate in quiet for a while, the only sound being the scrape of cutlery over plates, and Will's thoughts rumbling inside his head. He wondered if the Blakes were eating their dinner now too, or if it was too early. He wondered if Mabel was making more soup. 

"Did you have a nice time?" his mother broke the silence at last. She looked nervous, he thought, desperate for him to say yes and absolve her of any guilt she felt about sending him away for so long. 

For a moment, he considered lying, saying that he'd hated every moment of it. He considered shouting and crying and letting all of his hurt spill out of his mouth, eyes, ears. He considered telling the truth, that they'd sent him to happiness, and drawn him back into a unique kind of suffering that one can only feel after loving and losing. 

"Mhm," he nodded instead, "Yeah, it was really good." 

She smiled; he had passed her test, and, therefore, she and his father were innocent of any wrong. 

"Glad to hear it," his father nodded stiffly, not looking up from his meal. 

"Yeah," Will repeated. 

He glanced around the kitchen, in all its claustrophobia, and at his parents, who he was certain weren't happy - but he supposed that was another one of their secrets. This house was no longer home to him, even after leaving it. In fact, the only home he might find here was a home for his childhood memories, stacking them up in his old bedroom and leaving them there to stay safe. 

And he looked out the window at the orange evening, and what lay beyond, and was struck by an odd thought. Birds, he thought, did not hear God in their heads in the way that humans wished they could. But - and his hand absently moved to his chest where the ring lay next to his heart - when they migrated, they always managed to find their way home. As if a compass hung around their necks, as if their hearts guided them to where they were supposed to be. 

At that moment, Will felt a little like a bird; heart tugging him towards his destination. Unlike a bird, he thought, he had hands. God's hands. Tom's hands. And unlike a bird, when he found his home again, he was going to hold onto it with those hands. He was going to stay, just as Tom asked him. 

"In fact," he looked both of his parents fully in the face and smiled. His future belonged to him. "I'm gonna go back next year." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the epilogue should be up in the next few days! so ill save my massive authors note until then
> 
> i hope this chapter has done these boys the justice they deserve! goodbyes are so difficult, but perhaps less so when it's just a "see you later"?
> 
> i hope you enjoyed, feel free to let me know what you liked and what you loathed!


	15. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! apologies for the delay! i originally wrote 3.5k of tom suffering, but decided i didnt want that, in the end, so wrote this instead
> 
> i hope this is fitting as an ending
> 
> the quote at the beginning is from one of my favourite books - i thought it was perfect
> 
> hope you enjoy!

_ "Happiness is the longing for repetition."- Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness Of Being _

Summer was usually Will's favourite time of year. He could take a break from his studies, and laze in the sun for hours on end, agreeing with his parents' suggestions that he should get a job, but never really doing anything about it. He could smoke and drink, and sneak out after dark to meet up with the girls in town who wore miniskirts and blue eyeshadow. He'd listen to his records, or turn up his pocket transistor whenever The Stones started playing. Normally, it was bliss. 

The summer of '68 had been different. He had been away at his aunt's house for over a month, although the weeks seemed to slip and slide together. He had made a friend, unlike anyone else he'd ever met. He had fallen, not just in love, but into a happiness quite unexpected. 

He hoped that the summer of '69 would be the same. 

The year, give or take, that had passed since he'd left that last August had been mostly like any other. He'd returned to university, to his studies and acquaintances. To self-governing. To a familiar type of freedom. 

But, as similar as it was, it had been unlike most years he'd lived in the same number of ways. 

He thought over it lightly, in the back of his father's Minor 1000, squashed against his suitcase. This year he had loved and ached in equal measure. Many nights, he'd grappled with God, praying more than he ever had that Tom would come to  _ him.  _ That they would find each other in the night, and all else would fall away. Yes, the nights had been hardest, when he was alone and wanting. 

They'd lost contact around October, a little before Will's birthday, when he'd run out of money to call, and had no number to give Tom in return. Since then, each evening he'd closed his eyes and hoped that if he tried hard enough, he would reach Tom in his bed. 

He wondered if Tom ever saw him, in those hazy moments between waking and dreaming, settling beside him in bed. For that was where he most often saw Tom. 

Now, as the car crossed mile after mile, drawing them closer and closer together, Will felt a pull in his chest. It was as if a thread had been tugged taut, and was now reeling him in. He felt it just beside his heart. In his chest, just below the golden ring he kept hidden beneath his shirt. Blake's ring. Blake's pull. He wondered if Tom felt it too. 

He tried not to think about how afraid he was. What if Tom, now having control of his own hands, had moulded himself into someone new, someone unrecognisable? Someone who knew he was worth so much more than Will. Equally, he worried that he himself had changed too much, had been away for too long, and that Tom wouldn't love him anymore. 

They said that absence made the heart grow fonder, but they never said that it made it heavier. That love, once light as fairy's breath, would transform itself into a weight in the stomach. An almost physical reminder of its presence. In place, perhaps, of the lover. 

He felt his stomach lurch as the car found the familiar turns of the village, passing the post office, the church, the green. How much they reminded him of the previous summer. How much they still felt like home. 

His blood reached full heat as they stopped in front of Mabel's cottage. Glancing out the window, he noticed that some of the ivy around the door had been trimmed back, and the weeds were mostly gone from the path. It was far from perfect, but it was a start. 

As he reached for the handle to open his door, both of his parents turned in their seats to look at him. His mother was frowning, worried, while his father wore a mask of neutrality. 

"Will," his mother sighed, gaze shifting between Will and her hands, "How long- When do you think you'll be coming back?" 

Their discussions about Will's return to Mabel had been brief, clipped to go down easier. Will had told them that he'd be going away, and that he hoped they'd be kind enough to drive him. He hadn't said when he planned on leaving - hadn't told them that he wasn't planning on leaving at all. 

"I don't know," he told her, adjusting his grip on the door handle. 

His father snorted. "Just don't expect me to be at your beck and call."

"I won't," he said, "I promise." 

They climbed out of the car, Will leading the way up the stone path. He knocked on the door three times, noticing the way flakes of blue paint drifted to the ground. 

Mabel answered almost immediately, wearing a nice dress and a smile. Her hair, dark and streaked with grey, was even longer now, Will noticed. She somehow looked younger than he remembered. 

"Will!" she grinned, pulling him into a tight hug. 

"Auntie," he smiled into her hair, greeted by the familiar smell of yellow and sunlight. 

She released him and let him inside, turning to his parents. "Hello Mikey," she said, and his father grimaced at the nickname, "Dora. How lovely to see you all!" She beckoned them in as Will set down his suitcase at the foot of the stairs, longing to go back up to the guest room - or was it his room now? - and unpack. 

After closing the door, Mabel led them into the kitchen. She offered tea, and for a while, Will listened to the three of them make polite conversation around the kitchen table. 

It was almost torture, he thought, how he had to sit here and be silent, when all he wanted was to find Tom. How could he be so close to him now, and still not be beside him? He could  _ feel  _ it. The circle about to complete. The plate fragment about to fit into the gap. He could feel it so much in every inch of his body, each part crying out for Tom after so long. He just wanted to be home. 

"We'd best be off," Will's father said eventually, slapping his palms against his thighs. 

"Yes," his mother agreed, "We're supposed to be going over to Eliza's this afternoon."

All four of them rose from their chairs, Will's mother frowning at him slightly, while his father avoided looking at him at all. His parents walked into the hall, Mabel following behind them. For a moment, Will hesitated in the kitchen, as the realisation truly dawned on him that he wouldn't be making the journey back with his parents. This fact made him feel so simultaneously old and young, and he revelled in the way both of those labels wrapped around his wrists. 

"Will," Mabel called from the hall, jolting him out of his satisfied trance. 

He joined the rest of his family, watching his mother smooth the creases from her dress, his father adjusting his hat on his head. 

"See you soon," Mabel smiled, giving each of them a kiss on the cheek. 

"Probably later, rather than sooner, I'm afraid," Will's father said, patting her gently on the shoulder, "Look after yourself." 

"Bye," Will waved from the other side of the room. He tried to keep the laugh from his voice, finding it suddenly hilarious that his father could barely speak to him, even to say goodbye. 

His father finally met his eye. They nodded at each other, and with a gruff, "Be good," Michael Schofield turned and started towards the car. 

"Oh Will," his mother sighed, walking over to where he stood and straightening his collar, "You'll be good, won't you? You'll be nice to your aunt?" 

"Yes, Mum," he smiled slightly. 

"And you'll call if anything happens? If you need anything?" 

Will nodded. "Yes, Mum," and he kissed her on the cheek. 

"Good, good," she cupped his face in her hands, seeming to search each inch of it for something Will wasn't aware of. Or, perhaps, remembering him all like this. These last moments of his childhood. 

Then she released him again, and stepped away. "Goodbye," she said to Mabel as she strode towards the door, where her husband was waiting in the car. 

Will saw his youth following close behind her, and knew, then, that he had reached the true threshold of adulthood. He was no longer living in between. He was certain. 

Then Mabel shut the door, and the house fell quiet. 

She turned to him with a smile. "I don't know how you've managed to wait this long," she said, "He's very excited to see you."

At this, Will's stomach flipped again, glad of some confirmation that Tom still wanted to see him as much as he wanted to see Tom. Subconsciously, his hand moved to the chain around his neck, pulling it so that the ring now lay on top of his shirt rather than hiding below it. Not long, now, until it found its way home. 

"Do you know where I'll find him?" he asked. 

She chuckled and walked over to his suitcase, sitting in wait by the stairs. "I think you know better than me." 

He nodded, suddenly breathless. His heart was racing. He started towards the door, feeling almost like he was in a dream. 

"Aren't you going to take a coat? Heard it might rain." His aunt was looking at him softly, with those eyes that seemed to know him inside out. He'd forgotten that feeling, forgotten how she managed read him. 

"I'll be fine," he replied, as he knew he should, "It's June. I'll see you later." 

And he left.

*

He stood anxiously at the bus stop, although it wasn't the bus he was waiting for. Above him, the heavens had opened, and water was dripping down his back. 

He wondered what Tom had been doing in his absence. How he'd been. How his family had been. He wondered what Tom would ask him about his own life. They had forever, he supposed, to catch each other up. 

When he saw him, when he stepped out of the shop in a dark coat, holding a black umbrella, that familiar warmth spread throughout his body. As nervous as he was, he knew, then, that he had made the right choice. He knew, then, that he would always end up back here. Eventually. 

His eyes met Will's and even from across the street, Will could see they were a brilliant blue. For a beat, the two stared at each other, him under his umbrella and Will soaked to the skin. Suddenly, his face split into a dazzling grin that blindsided Will. He smiled so wide, as if they had known each other all of their lives. They had, Will supposed. The parts of their lives that mattered, at least. 

He crossed the road, and stood next to Will, angling the umbrella to keep them both dry. They turned to each other, taking in each other in all their differences and similarities. Tom's eyes stopped on Will's wet hair, dripping droplets of water down his nose. He laughed. 

"Been for a swim?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you enjoyed! thank you so much for reading this thing, all the way through!
> 
> this fic has been a true journey for me, and, it sounds a little stupid, but in writing it, i learned a lot about myself!
> 
> im going to miss this little world ive created so much, and im going to miss living inside wills head. im going to miss writing all the time, and im going to miss the lovely feedback ive received all the way through. im considering a sequel, but i dont want to ruin them by writing something that's not as good. im also considering writing a completely different fic, but that may be a while away
> 
> if anyone wants to read the stuff i started writing for tom, i kept it, so please let me know! also if you want to know what i think happened in the year between the last chapter and the epilogue, and what happens next, also let me know! although im content to leave it all to your imaginations
> 
> thank you all so much again for reading and for being so lovely. when i started this fic, i never expected it to have so much story within it, to the point of it being novel length. nor did i expect for people to seem to love it so much! i can only thank you again and again
> 
> if you want to find me elsewhere, im on twitter and tumblr @mickydolenzs
> 
> see you next time maybe, and stay safe! <3


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